


Gravity Of Love

by ShippersList



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Character, Dean-Centric, F/M, Found Family, Insecurity, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Openly Bisexual Dean, protective!Dean, questionable morals, whump!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 21:52:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 39,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4977865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Dean gets a letter from his father, ordering him to travel to New Orleans, he doesn’t know what to expect. However, learning that John had died leaving Dean an apartment building wasn’t high on his list. Dean is a mess and the building is a mess, but stubbornly, Dean restores it and rebuilds his own life from the shambles in the process.</p><p>Past has a way to catch up, though, and as Dean learns more about his peculiar tenants, he is sucked into the mystery of a man wearing tiaras and fairy wings. What first seems like a harmless mental case growing vegetables and harvesting bees on the roof, eventually proves to be something completely different. At the end, through sacrifice and pain, Dean finds a family he didn’t know he wanted, and love he didn’t know he deserved.</p><p>• All titles inspired by the music of Enigma. Playlist available in <a href="https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLHpJk6l3HCzSIUufs5OrQcKGSf5shHWya">here</a><br/>• Part of DCBB2015 challenge. Art by <a href="http://bispiu.tumblr.com">sinerei</a>, art masterpost <a href="http://aberimfauscho.tumblr.com/post/132663340616/dcbb2015-gravity-of-love-by-shipperslist-art-by">here</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Too Blind To See

**Author's Note:**

> Rating due to discussion of torture and a torture scene in the last chapter.
> 
> Thanks to Bay for beta, Pencil Eater for grammar sweep, and [the_wordbutler](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/) for the aid with the legal stuff.

 

The warehouse looked shabby.

It had the air of something forgotten, given up, like taking care of it was too much of a bother to its owner. The old fence was rusted and the gate was partially dropped from its hinges. The piled-up corpses of abandoned cars only enhanced the feeling of dejection that made it look like a salvage yard. If it wasn’t for the ”Singer Autos” sign, Dean would’ve thought he was in the wrong place.

But nope, this was the place.

Dean dropped his duffel bag on the ground and sighed. He had no fucking clue why he was here. The damn letter itself had been weird, and the fact that it was the first time in — How long? Twelve years? — he’d heard from Dad made it even weirder.

He dug the tattered envelope from his pocket, fished the letter from inside, and opened it to read it once more, even though he had memorized it a long time ago.

 

> _Dean,_  
>  _I’m sorry for everything. Get to New Orleans & talk to Bobby Singer from Singer Autos. He’ll tell you everything. And for fuck’s sake, get in touch with Sam already. He’s your brother, remember?_  
>  _— Dad_

 

Yeah. That.

Dean closed his eyes and rubbed his face. He was fucking tired and had no patience for his dad’s shit. He would’ve been more than happy to say he had no _time_ for his dad’s shit, but, unfortunately, that would’ve been a big, fat lie.

He had nothing but time.

The hot August sun bore into him, making his head pound and his neck prickle with sweat. The street was deserted and the building in front of him didn’t look much better off, but he guessed he had to find out anyway. Dean shrugged, picked up his duffel, and started towards the tattered double doors.

The inside of the warehouse didn’t look much better than the outside, but at least the cars seemed like they might actually work, at least if you popped the tires back on. There were a couple of old Chevys on the racks, and he could hear loud swearing from under one of them.

”Mr. Singer?”

There was a loud bang and a stream of expletives before a pair of narrowed eyes under a tattered old cap peered at Dean from the pit to his left.

”I’m not buying or hiring. Now, get lost,” the man called gruffly and ducked back under the car.

Dean tried again. ”Are you Bobby Singer?”

”Who the hell are you?”

Okay then. ”Uh, I’m Dean, John Winchester’s son. He told me to see you.”

The eyes narrowed even more. ”Took you long enough.”

”Yeah, well… I didn’t get the letter until a couple of months ago, and it took me some time to get here.” He sighed. ”Was there something you wanted to tell me?”

”You don’t know?” Mr. Singer sounded surprised.

”Know what? I don’t have a friggin’ clue why I’m here!” Dean snapped. ”That letter was the first time I heard from dad in twelve years. I’m not exactly up to date here.”

”Balls,” Mr. Singer muttered, barely audible, and slowly climbed up from the pit.

He was a grizzly kind of a man, clad in oil-stained jeans, t-shirt, and a plaid shirt. Something about the sight was familiar to Dean. He couldn’t place it, but it felt — homey of sorts. Mr. Singer walked slowly, limping a little, right past Dean to a set of stairs leading away from the auto shop on the other side of the room.

Probably into the office, Dean figured.

The old mechanic was already halfway up the stairs when he turned and guffawed, ”Well, don’t just stand there.” Then he continued up and vanished into a room to his left.

Dean blinked and followed.

It was Mr. Singer’s office, alright, complete with a huge desk drowning under heaps of paper, a battered old couch, and and overstuffed bookcase by the wall. It looked like its owner: weathered, worn, and suspicious. It suited Dean’s mood just fine.

Mr. Singer sat heavily down behind his desk and motioned Dean to sit onto the couch. Dean complied, relieved to get a little rest. His host sat in silence, staring at him, which in all honesty was slightly creepy. Dean was about to ask him to get to the point already, when Mr. Singer harrumphed and rummaged for something from his desk drawer.

”So, you’ve been out of touch with John?”

Dean shrugged. ”Yeah, you could say that, what with twelve years of silence and all.”

Mr. Singer nodded and tapped his fingers on his desk.

”You have an ID?”

Dean’s brows shot up at the question, but he stood up, walked to stand in front of the desk, and dug his driver’s license from his wallet for Mr. Singer to see. The gruff man took it and scrutinized it carefully from both sides for a good amount of time.

Dean suddenly realized he was checking if it was legit.

”Dean Jonathan Winchester, born January 21st 1979,” Mr. Singer mused. ”Any family?”

”No,” Dean answered flatly.

”Hmm,” Mr. Singer commented, and handed the ID back.

”Your dad’s dead,” he then said without a preamble.

Dean blinked several times and sat back on the couch. ”My dad’s what now?”

”John Winchester died on July 19th 2012.”

Dean gaped. ”That’s over three years ago!”

Mr. Singer shrugged. ”You said you got a letter. When was it dated?”

Dean dug said letter from his pocket and checked it again. ”June 2012,” he muttered. Sighing, he lowered the letter on his lap, and rubbed a hand over his face.

Mr. Singer raised a brow but said nothing.

After a moment of awkward silence, Dean shook his head. ”It was addressed to an old P.O. Box of mine. I don’t even use that one much anymore. It was pure chance I happened to be there to check it.”

”I’m not the one you should be explaining anything.”

”Yeah, well, it’s not like I can tell him, right?” Dean said, suddenly tired to the bone. ”He said I should look you up and that you’d ’tell me everything.’”

”Yeah, I guess I will,” Mr. Singer muttered. ”At least just to get my hands out of it.”

Dean frowned — out of what? What had dad been up to?

”You are officially a property owner and a landlord. Congratulations,” Mr. Singer said dryly.

”The fuck?” Dean squeaked.

”I have the keys and some papers for you here, the lawyer has the rest. I have no idea how John managed to leave this to you instead of losing it to the debtors.” Mr. Singer shook his head and dropped a folder on his desk.

”The building, ’Marytower’ ( _”A what?”_ ) is an old one, and in a pretty bad shape, has been for as long as I can remember. It’s also fully rented, for some fucked-up reason I don’t understand. John’s place was in the first floor apartment. In addition to that, there are five apartments, all rented out. The tenants have been paying rent more or less frequently, and I’ve deposited the money on an account John set up for you.”

Mr. Singer turned the paperwork around. ”You can sign here, here, and here,” he said, emphasizing his words with his finger.

”What?” Dean asked again.

”Are you stupid or intentionally slow, boy? Sign the papers and go check out your property.”

”But… is this even legal? Shouldn’t there be lawyers and shit?”

”Believe it or not, as the trustee, I’m actually allowed to hand these papers and the keys to you,” Mr. Singer said dryly. ”But you still need to check in on the lawyer to get all legalese sorted out. The info is in the papers.”

He shoved the folder and a ridiculously ornate rustic key ring to Dean, who accepted them mutely. He stared at the folder and the keys for a while, frowned, and looked back at the older man.

”What am I supposed to do with all this?”

”How the hell should I know? I’m only interested in getting them off my hands.”

When Dean didn’t move, Mr. Singer sighed deeply and deflated.

”Look… I know it’s a big hit, finding out that your old man has died _and_ left you a building to look after. I don’t give a rat’s ass what you do with the building, but at least go and take a look. You owe the tenants at least that much.”

”I owe — Look.” Dean closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. ”Care to explain _how_ exactly am I indebted to a bunch of tenants I didn’t even know I had?”

Mr. Singer gave him a long look from under his cap. ”Because your dad told them that Dean would take care of them.”

Dean stared at him for a moment, before huffing an unamused laugh. ”Yeah. Of course he did,” Dean sighed. ”So, how do I get there? I’ve never been in New Orleans before.”

”It’s on the outskirts of the town, perhaps 15 minutes with a car.”

”Nice. Except I don’t have a car,” Dean said flatly.

”Actually, you do,” Mr. Singer countered. ”Come on.”

They took the stairs back to the auto shop and exited via a door in the corner. Mr. Singer took Dean across the yard to the corner of it, to a bulk carefully covered with tarp.

”You know, John always said this was your car,” Mr. Singer said as he yanked the tarp away.

Dean’s breath escaped in a watery sigh as he took in the sleek, predatory form of the Impala. He held out a hand, barely daring to touch the hood.

”Hey, Baby,” Dean said softly. ”You look good.”

”Well, that car was the only thing John looked after properly. When he started getting in bad way, he brought it here. Said he didn’t want anyone else to get it.” Mr. Singer paused. ”Although, I think the main reason was that he wanted to protect it from himself,” he grumbled.

Dean hung his head in silence for a moment, resting his hand on the car’s hood. ”So, he drank himself to death.”

It wasn’t a question and Mr. Singer’s silence confirmed his suspicion. Dean closed his eyes and shook his head.

”It’s not like it was a surprise, you know? Dad was a drunk back when me and Sa—” his voice faltered for a split second. Then he cleared his throat. ”Back when I was a kid,” he corrected and pretended not to notice Mr. Singer’s sharp gaze. ”Figured he would go down that road eventually.”

He pushed himself up and turned to look at Mr. Singer calmly. ”So, how did he go? In a bar brawl, drunk driving, or seizing?”

”Liver cirrhosis.”

”Well, fuck,” Dean mused. ”That’s an ugly way to go.”

Mr. Singer shrugged. ”I wasn’t aware a pretty way was an option.”

”I guess so.” Dean tapped Baby’s hood once. ”So, where’s the place?”

 

* * *

 

New Orleans was hot, humid, and messy. Dean was pretty sure he didn’t like it, but that might’ve been just his exhaustion and hunger speaking. He didn’t remember when he had last eaten a warm meal, let alone slept in an actual bed.

Baby purred lowly as he drove on, following Mr. Singer’s scrawled instructions. The car wasn’t fine, but it was in decent enough a shape, and nothing Dean hadn’t fixed before. At least, if all else failed, he would have her back. About time.

So, he mused, he was a respectable person now. A property owner. He might have laughed out loud if the situation hadn’t been so surreal. What the fuck had dad thought, leaving the whole building to Dean? Why?

And, really, _Marytower?_

Dean would’ve liked to see the amount of booze dad had consumed to come up with that idea.

Then again, perhaps not.

The building wasn’t that hard to find, or it wasn’t after Dean figured out that the smudged scribbling he had read as ’three blocks then right’ had actually been ’take left then right’ — seriously, the man could work on his handwriting a bit. The building was four stories high, had a bay window with a balcony on top, and bright blue double doors decorated with stained glass. It might have been a nicely eccentric and bohemian place, if it wasn’t in such a sad state: The plaster was cracked and partially peeled off, revealing the tiles underneath. The bright blue paint was chipped, there were a couple of broken windows, and the wiring looked dubious, to put it mildly.

All in all, it looked like a place nobody would voluntarily live in, let alone pay rent to do so.

In other words: it looked exactly like a place dad would live in.

A bit hesitantly, Dean stepped out of the car and craned his neck to look up. It was like there were… grass tufts spilling over the rooftop? Wasn’t that just brilliant.

Knowing nothing about the neighborhood, Dean didn’t dare leave the papers in the car, so he took the folder and the keyring with him and walked to the blue doors.

Up close, the building was even more pathetic. Both of the first floor windows were broken and replaced with plywood, the foundation was a bit crumbled at the corners, and the stale stink of urine hung heavily in the air.

Shaking his head a little, Dean searched for the right key to open the double doors and take a look inside.

The door hinges squealed and the lock protested a little, until he finally cajoled the door open. He let his eyes roam around the hallway, taking in the peeling paint, moisture damage on the walls, and the crude writing scribbled to his left. There was a light switch but it didn’t work.

Dean shrugged and made his way inside.

There were six mailboxes on the wall. One of them, the first on the left, was spilling its contents on the floor, and, even without looking more closely, Dean knew it had been John’s. Mr. Singer had said he had emptied it at times, but from the state of it, it seemed there still were enough bills and — oh, really classy, Dad — trashy porn mags coming in even years after his death.

Dean fumbled to open the mailbox and gathered the heaps of paper into his arms. Slightly unsure of what to do, he decided to walk forward. Mr. Singer had said John had lived in the first floor, and Dean wasn’t even a little surprised to come face to face with a door that held his name.

It still made him pause, though, before he gritted his teeth and opened the door.

A dense cloud of stale, musty air slammed into him, and he nearly gagged. According to Mr. Singer, dad’s body and everything else likely to rot had been cleared off, but it didn’t change the fact that the apartment had been abandoned for over three years. A thick layer of dust and soot covered every surface, but did nothing to hide the sorry state of the home of late John Winchester. Even in the dim light Dean could see the place as it was: a hidey-hole of a lonely drunkard.

Dean dropped the mail and the folder on the floor and sat heavily on the stained couch. A billow of dust sprang up, but he barely noticed it, resting his head in his hands instead. He closed his eyes and gripped his hair tightly, grounding himself on the twinge on his scalp.

What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Why the hell had Dad left the building to him? And what lizards had Dad seen crawling on the walls when he had decided that naming the half-crumbled thing after Mom was a smart move?

”Hello?”

Dean jerked his head up at the cautious female voice calling from the doorway.

”Do you need help or should I call the cops?” The voice was clear and steady.

Sighing, Dean stood up and walked towards the door, his hands visible. ”I could use some help,” he said, stopping several feet from the woman standing in the hallway, staring daggers at him. ”There’s no need for cops. I — well. I just found out I’m the new owner of the building.”

The woman cocked her head a little and narrowed her eyes. ”You’re Dean.”

”Uh. Yeah, I’m Dean.”

”Your father passed away over three years ago. We didn’t think you were real.”

Dean blinked and frowned.

”You took your time, getting here,” the woman said pointedly, her voice slightly tinted with reproach.

”I only found out a couple of months ago. I didn’t know about this place until this morning.”

The woman looked at him a while longer, then offered her hand. ”I’m Lisa, I live in the third floor. The bay window is mine.” Her grip was strong and assertive, and fit her demeanor.

”If you’re going to stay, I’d suggest you clean up a bit,” Lisa said, raising her brow at the mess.

”I’m not sure —”

”Where are you staying then?”

When Dean didn’t answer, Lisa rolled her eyes. ”Thought so. I’ll get some trash bags.”

 

* * *

 

Lisa didn’t just get him trash bags, she also loaned him cleaning tools and a storm lantern. The apartment wasn’t big (a bedroom, a living room, a small kitchen, and an even smaller bathroom), but dad had made a pretty amazing job filling it up with crap. There was _everything_ from broken bottles to linen towels; from heaps of crossword puzzle books to discarded tupperware catalogues; from stacks of CDs to, yes, a dead rat.

At first, Dean tried to sort the stuff into neat keep/repair/toss heaps, but he soon realized it was futile. After that, he proceeded to stuff pretty much everything into the trash bags.

Lisa offered to help, but Dean declined, not wanting to involve her more. However, he did accept the bowl of mac’n’cheese she shoved him. Despite obviously being from a package, it tasted heavenly. Dean was polite enough to tell her, and received a small smile and a wink in return.

It felt nice.

For some delusional reason, he had thought he would have had the whole place cleaned up by dark, but he found out he had been sorely mistaken. By the evening, Dean had barely managed to clean up the bedroom and the living room. He stacked the full trash bags into the corner of the living room, deciding to get rid of them in the morning.

While cleaning, Dean had found a couple of spare blankets that seemed relatively clean. Sort of. He trudged slowly into the bedroom and looked at the bed. It seemed sturdy enough, but the mattress was lumpy, and he didn’t want to think too closely about the stains littering it.

In all honesty, he didn’t really want to spend the night, but Lisa had actually been right: he had nowhere else to go. He spread the bigger blanket on the bed — not to shield the mattress from him, but the other way round, and left the other waiting as a blanket.

In the bathroom, he screwed open the taps from both the shower and the sink. The pipes let out a loud whine and some serious gurgling, then brownish-gray water started to stream from the taps. Dean stared at it and sighed, then closed his eyes for a moment and decided to wait.

After some time, the water turned clean-ish and Dean decided it was drinkable. Lisa would’ve probably warned him if it wasn’t. He argued with himself for a moment whether he should shower or not, a debate his indulgent side won. Sure, he didn’t have any clean clothes at he moment, but at least he would be relatively clean under. Besides, the water was warm and the pressure decent. It would be okay.

Halfway through his shower, the water turned ice-cold, but it was still okay.

Back in the bedroom, he lay down onto the bed in his t-shirt and boxer briefs, pulled the threadbare blanket over himself, and settled in for the night. He knew he wouldn’t probably catch much sleep, but even being horizontal in a warm, dry building was a bliss.

He decided to let loose his inner Scarlett O’Hara and think about his situation in the morning. If nothing else, he had some serious floor scrubbing to do.

 

* * *

 

Dean woke up feeling disoriented. He was in a strange bed, he seemed to be clean, and he was feeling ravenous. It took him some time to readjust his brain, to get his bearings, and to remember what had happened the day before.

He was in Louisiana. Dad was dead. Dean was a property owner. Dad’s place was a pig shed. One of his tenants was a hot brunette. And Dean had no fucking clue what to do with the information.

Sighing, he hauled himself to sit on the edge of the mattress. He had no idea what the time was, but he knew it was a Tuesday. Sadly enough, even that knowledge was a sort of a novelty.

The apartment was dim behind the plywood-covered windows, but enough light filtered through the cracks for Dean to see without the storm lantern. The bedroom was sparse, almost empty besides the bed and a dresser that looked a little worse to wear, what with one missing leg and several dropped-out pulls. But it was a room with a real bed. Never mind it stank of spunk, stale booze, and desperation, it was _Dean’s._

He hadn’t had a room of his own for almost ten years.

Realizing where his thoughts were about to turn, Dean huffed an unamused laugh and shook his head. Was he really going to do this again? Fall in line and jump when dad snapped his fingers, even if it was from behind the grave?

Then again, did he really have a choice? He had already seen what the world outside had to offer, and, to be honest, he wasn’t that keen on discovering how long it would take for him to follow his old man.

So, yeah. He was probably going to do this. Fuck his life, now that he once again seemed to have one.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Wincing a little, Dean stood up, taking only two steps before remembering to put his jeans and shoes on. The floor wasn’t yet in a shape to walk barefoot, and pants were considered a common courtesy.

There was a second knock before Dean made it to the door. Behind it stood Lisa, armed with a bottle of orange juice, a sandwich, and a full load of demands.

”I’m sure there’s enough money to fix at least some of the problems around here,” she said with a sharp smile, shoving the food at Dean. ”The pipes and wiring are the biggest problems, really. Draft is also an issue, but that’s more a nuisance than a real fault. It would probably matter more if we lived up in North. The windows, on the other hand —”

”Wait, hold on,” Dean interrupted. ”What exactly do you expect me to do?”

Lisa’s eyes narrowed. ”You are our landlord,” she snapped. ”Act on it.” Without further ado, she turned and started towards the door.

A little bewildered, Dean took a step outside the apartment and peered after her. He was able to get a glimpse of a kid with dark hair before the door slammed shut.

 _Okay_ , he thought. _The hot brunette is a mom._

For some reason, the idea of a kid living in a building like this made something twinge in Dean’s gut. He had had some experience, and it wasn’t something he would wish for anyone. Frowning, Dean walked into the kitchen, paused at the doorway, blinked, and then turned to walk back into the bedroom. The kitchen was seriously out of use at the moment. He might need napalm to get it cleaned up.

Sitting heavily on the bed, he took a bite of his sandwich, and started to think.

There would be a fucking insane amount of work to get the apartment cleaned up and livable, not to mention fixing everything that was wrong in the building. But before that, he would need to figure out all the legal stuff with the lawyer.

Feeling a tide of rising panic about the huge workload looming over him, Dean forced himself to concentrate on his sandwich, chewing it meticulously, rinsing it down with gulps of orange juice. When he was done, he felt marginally better and fairly confident he could think things through without an actual panic attack.

First things first: He needed to clean up the apartment, which meant pretty much stripping it bare, and scrubbing it from ceiling to floor. Then, he needed to get electricity and gas, and for that, he needed Mr. Singer. After that, he would need to start cataloguing the repairs needed around the building, to start fixing the leaky pipes and faulty wiring, to get to know his tenants, to —

Dean pressed his hands into fists and good a deep breath.

Small steps. Right.

 

* * *

 

Luckily for him, Lisa had left a full roll of giant trash bags, so Dean had no shortage of containers where to stuff the nearly literal shit he cleaned from the apartment. He had no idea how (and why?) the fuck dad had managed to hoard so much useless crap, and why the amount seemed so much bigger when jammed into trash bags instead of being scattered around the apartment.

He didn’t use the storm lantern, and working in the gloom was slightly disturbing and oddly comforting. Dean had no real wish to see what he was throwing in the trash, and he was pretty sure he was better off with not seeing the surfaces in bright light anyway. At the same time, it made him feel a bit shady (pun intended), like he was doing something he wasn’t exactly supposed to do.

After he had stuffed everything into the trash bags, Dean took a trip outside to see if there were decent garbage cans. He found them on the side of the building, stacked between the wall and a fence. The cans had probably been emptied at some point, but they were overstuffed and spilling already. Dean sighed and added the garbage disposal into the long mental list of ”Things to take care of.”

He hauled the trash bags from the apartment and piled them beside the garbage cans. It would look fucking ugly, but it wasn’t like the building was a Disney Castle anyway. It could handle some more trash in its armpit for a while longer.

The apartment felt oddly big and echoed hollowly when Dean returned inside. In the dim light, he took in the bareness of it and wondered, if he could really fit in here, to make a life for himself.

Wanting to escape the big questions, he took out the cleaning tools Lisa had left him and set to work.

It took him the rest of the day to wipe the ceilings and walls and to scrub the bedroom and living room floors twice with a scrub brush and heavy-duty bleach. He wasn’t delusional enough to think he would make it into the kitchen yet, and, despite his wish not to witness the years of filth piled up, he actually wanted some light to clean it. Fucking around with a gas stove in the dark was too extreme even for him, thanks.

In a sudden bout of energy, he decided to clean the tub and wash his clothes. If he was about to meet some fancy-ass lawyer, he probably should at least try to look like a decent human being instead of the drifter he thankfully no longer was.

Dean nearly gagged at the bleach fumes in the small bathroom, even though he had the door open for ventilation. He managed to clean the tub somewhat, and if his jeans and shirts weren’t completely clean, they would now smell like bleach instead of sweat and shit. He was momentarily at a loss where to hang the clothes to dry, until he shrugged and threw them over the doors. He had wiped them, so they were relatively clean.

Dean was wondering about what to do next, when there was knock on the door. He wished he had a clock to know the time, but it wouldn’t probably matter much. Unless Lisa had told the other tenants he was here, the only visitors he might expect were either her or Mr. Singer.

It was Lisa, again. She raised a brow and made a face at him.

”What have you been up to? You look like crap!”

Dean blinked. ”Um. Cleaning?”

”The whole day?”

”Yes? What time is it, anyway?”

Lisa stared at him for a while. ”It’s 9:30pm,” she said finally. ”Don’t you have a clock?”

”I don’t have pretty much anything, at the moment,” Dean said carefully. ”I’m going to sort that out tomorrow.”

After a moment, Lisa shook her head and sighed. ”Have you eaten anything yet?”

”No. I haven’t cleaned the kitchen yet.”

Lisa blinked slowly. ”Right. Wait here.”

Once again, Dean was left standing in bemusement, staring at Lisa’s back. He was too tired to move, so he stood and waited, like Lisa had ordered.

After a short while, she came back and handed him a plastic bag.

”Don’t get used to this. I’m not planning on feeding you forever.”

”Yeah, okay,” Dean said, holding the bag in his hands.

Lisa nodded before she left, calling, ”I want the container back at some point, you know,” over her shoulder.

”Yeah, okay,” Dean repeated to the empty hallway.

He went in, walked straight into the bedroom, and turned the lantern on before sitting on the bed. The lantern filled the bedroom with ghostly light, but to Dean it was like a sun.

The bag held a container of food — still warm from the microwave, he guessed — and another bottle of orange juice. The food was rich and spicy: a thick stew with sausages, chicken, and vegetables served with rice, and it tasted heavenly. It made him almost too full, so he took only a couple of gulps of the juice, deciding to save the rest for the morning.

Feeling oddly off-kilter, he took a quick shower before settling for the night. As he lay in the lumpy mattress, he wondered what he had done to deserve the kindness of a complete stranger.

 

* * *

 

In the morning, he cleaned up in the bleak light of the storm lantern. His clothes were still damp when he put them on, but he figured they would dry out soon enough. He gulped down the rest of the orange juice, turned the lantern off, and left to see Mr. Singer.

The sun was already high, and Dean guessed the morning was closer to noon. It was hot and the Baby’s insides were hotter still, but Dean didn’t mind. Out of curiosity, he opened the glove compartment to find a box of cassette tapes. With something akin reverence, he brushed his fingers lightly over them, before randomly picking one and putting it on. With Black Sabbath blasting from the speakers, he smiled and took off.

Mr. Singer was outside when Dean pulled over. He took in Dean’s appearance with a raised brow.

”At least you got to take a shower.”

Dean blinked and stole a glance at his clothes. ”Well, the pipes work. That’s a good thing, I guess.”

Mr. Singer made a half shrug — half nod gesture and beckoned Dean inside.

”Want some coffee?” He asked as he stepped into his office.

”Um. Yeah, thanks, Mr. Singer.” Dean fidgeted a little, then decided to sit on the couch.

”Ain’t no mister. Call me Bobby,” the old man grumbled, as he fussed with his coffee machine, coaxed it to brew with a stream of expletives and some poking, and then poured them both a mug.

After declining sugar and milk, Dean leaned forward and nearly tipped his nose in the coffee. It smelled heavenly and tasted even better: bitter, burned, and strong.

”What do you need, Dean?” Bobby asked after a long pull from his mug. ”Did you call the lawyer already?”

”Call…? No, I didn’t. I don’t have a phone.”

Dean avoided Bobby’s sharp glance, pretending to find something of utter importance in his coffee.

”Okay,” Bobby said slowly. ”You want me to make the call?”

Dean gripped his mug with both hands. ”Yeah, I’d appreciate that.”

Bobby harrumphed, but put his coffee mug on his desk and turned to rummage for a phone number. Dean leaned back on the couch and took another gulp of coffee.

”Miss McKeon? It’s Bobby Singer — Who? _Singer_ — Yeah, the Winchester property — No, it’s not up for sale, on the contrary, actually — John Winchester’s son is here.” Bobby shot a sideways glance at Dean. ”He wants to meet you — Yeah, he’d like an appointment — Be nice, Miss McKeon, the kid just found out — Yeah, I’ll send him — Right. Goodbye.”

Bobby ended the call and scribbled something on a piece of paper. Dean gulped down the rest of the coffee and stood up.

”Here,” Bobby said and shoved the paper at Dean. ”She’ll meet you as soon as you get there.” He gave Dean the instructions how to drive to the lawyer’s office. Then he slapped Dean on the shoulder. ”Don’t let the appearance fool you. She’s pretty as a peach, but she’ll eat you alive if you don’t behave.”

Unsure of what to think about Bobby’s advice, Dean nodded mutely and left.

The lawyer’s office wasn’t far, but it took Dean almost an hour to get there, as he took a couple of wrong turns and had to look for a parking slot big enough for Baby. The office lobby was unassuming with interior design that strove more for efficiency than style, but Dean still felt out of place.

The young man standing behind the reception counter raised his brows at him.

”I — uh, I have a meeting? Dean Winchester, I suppose someone’s expecting me?”

It took only a couple of seconds for the man to check his computer and offer Dean a bright smile. ”Yes, thank you, Mr. Winchester. You’ll be seeing Ms. Tessa McKeon. She knows you’re here. Please, proceed to the hall and then to the right.”

”Thanks,” Dean mumbled.

Feeling a bit nervous, Dean walked as per instructed, locating the door that had _Tessa McKeon, Probate Attorney_ labeled to the side. The door was slightly ajar, but Dean decided to knock anyway.

”Enter,” called a woman’s voice.

Looking at Tessa McKeon, Dean could guess what Bobby had meant by his remark of behaving. Ms. McKeon was about Dean’s age, very beautiful, and, by the look in her eyes, about as pliant as steel. Her handshake went well with her eyes.

At Ms. McKeon’s request, Dean provided his ID. While she sorted out all the necessary documents, Dean sat on the leather-padded chair in front of her desk and resisted the urge to fidget.

”Tell me, Mr. Winchester, where have you been the last three years?”

For a split second, Dean considered lying, but Ms. McKeon’s sharp stare convinced him otherwise.

”I was… traveling around, going wherever I could get a job.”

”Basically you mean you’ve been homeless.”

Dean suppressed a flinch. ”Yeah.”

”Have you ever been in prison or taken part in any illegal activities?”

”No.” And only by a stroke of luck, Dean thought.

Ms. McKeon watched at him for a good while. Dean wondered what she saw.

”Well, I have your legal documents here,” Ms. McKeon said, her voice turning crisp and professional.

”Your father, the late Mr. John Winchester, set up an account where the rent money was deposited. As you are probably aware, Mr. Singer has been acting as trustee and taking care of collecting the rent in your absence.”

Ms. McKeon launched into a detailed narration concerning the legal aspects of the inheritance and how to deal with transferring the trust property (the building and the built-up rent money) to the beneficiary (Dean). Dean listened to her with wide eyes, missing one half and not believing the second, but too polite to interrupt.

”The running expenses, meaning property taxes, insurance payments, garbage disposal et cetera, have been charged straight from the account. Also, as per my agreement with late Mr. John Winchester, there has been a monthly fee due to me to compensate my involvement.” She paused, obviously waiting for something.

”Okay?” Dean offered, not sure what else to say.

Ms. McKeon pressed her lips together in a tight line, but didn’t say anything. She tapped her computer for a moment, clicked her calculator, and then wrote something on a pad.

”This is the approximate total of your bank account,” she said turning the pad towards Dean. ”The sum will change after my expenses have been taken care of, but this will give you the general idea.”

Dean looked at the figure on the paper and felt color drain from his face.

”That can’t be right,” he managed hoarsely.

Ms. McKeon looked at him coolly.

Dean blinked. ”No. I mean — there’s so _much_. What about the mortgage?”

”There isn’t any.”

”I beg your pardon?” That’s… insane, right?

Ms. McKeon watched him with a strange look in her eyes. ”Your father bought the apartment on cash. There never was a mortgage to pay off.”

The information left Dean reeling. On cash? How? Where the hell had dad gotten the money? Even in as shitty condition as the building was, it would’ve costed more money than they had ever even seen. What the fuck, dad?

After a short while, Dean became aware that the attorney was looking at him, as if she was waiting for something.

”What am I supposed to do?” Dean asked, more than a little lost.

Something shifted in Ms. McKeon’s eyes. ”Well. If you’re planning on staying, you might want to make yourself at home,” she said, not unkindly.

”You mean… I’m allowed to use this money? On me?”

”Mr. Winchester,” Ms. McKeon said carefully. ”This _is_ your money. It’s in your name. You are required to take care of the building and your tenants, but otherwise you are allowed to use the money as you see fit.”

Dean dropped his eyes to his hands. This had to be a dream. He just wasn’t sure if it was a nightmare.

”Will you be able to manage the apartment building by yourself, or do you think you’ll have to get a property management company to handle possible tenant problems or maintenance issues?”

”Um. I think I’ll manage that by myself. Or at least I’d like to try.”

Ms. McKeon nodded. Something about that felt like approval to Dean.

 

* * *

 

From his meeting with Ms. McKeon, Dean went to the bank where his (His!) account was. When he walked out, the brand new credit card felt like it weighed a ton in his wallet. On the street, he felt at a loss of what to do, having too much options and too much money for his own peace of mind. After a silent argument, he decided, once again, to start small.

He started with buying a phone and a new set of clothes, ignoring the clerk’s eye-roll as he changed into them in the fitting room. Feeling like a brand new human in his clean, intact clothes, he contacted Entergy NO to get his apartment connected. From there, he continued to the nearest Walmart to get basic utensils, including his own set of heavy-duty cleaning tools. After all, he was facing the horror his dad had called kitchen, and he had no intention to venture into the room without haz-mat level equipment.

As he was driving back to the apartment, he realized he was ravenous. Apart from orange juice and coffee, he hadn’t eaten or drunk anything, and was starting to feel slightly lightheaded. He stopped to buy food that could be stored at room temperature, revelling for a moment in the chance to buy fresh fruits. It had been a long time since he had money.

On a whim, he decided to get Chinese takeout from the place beside the grocery store. He could always call it a celebratory dinner.

This time, he ate in the living room. It was cleanish and the candles he had bought helped to disguise the dingy looks.

Thinking about his property, Dean knew he was facing a huge workload. Not only was he about to convert his dad’s hole into a home of his own (yeah, he had sorta decided on that already), but to make thing right in the whole building as well. It would mean insane hours and a ridiculous amount of work, but it wasn’t like he had something better to do.

Now that he was _here_ , he could at least try, right? Try to grow up, try to be responsible, try to —

Dean huffed a bitter laugh. _Try to be a man._

Yeah.

He opened a can of beer and saluted at the ghost of his dad perched on his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The inspiration picture](http://thumbs.dreamstime.com/z/old-apartment-building-city-centre-13360955.jpg) for the building.


	2. Don't Look Back

The first time Dean flicked the lights on after finally getting the electricity connected, he took one look around and groaned. Even after days of furious scrubbing, the place still looked like shit. Almost literally. For a moment, he wondered if he should just drop everything and walk out, but at the end, he just proceeded to bang his head on the wall.

It took him a couple of days more to rip the partially shredded wallpapers out, bare the stone underneath, and scrub it clean too. He was self-aware enough to know that, by then, he was, in reality, procrastinating to clean the kitchen. So, on Sunday, Dean steeled himself, turned the lights on, and stepped into the kitchen.

It was a dump.

During the first days, Dean had gotten rid of pretty much everything that had been in the kitchen, excluding a wobbly table and two sad-looking chairs. It didn’t change the fact that the kitchen was still one of the most disgusting sights Dean had witnessed in his life, and he had seen plenty, thank you very much. Everything was covered in greasy soot: the walls, the counter, the stove — hell, even the ceiling was filmed over with filth.

After getting the legalese sorted out, he had immediately arranged a garbage truck to arrive on Monday. It prompted Dean to rip the kitchen completely bare, sparing only the sink, the fridge, and the table with chairs. After some inspection, he decided that the cabinets were sturdy enough, but they were so damn filthy that they would require an extended intimate moment with heavy duty disinfectant before Dean would place even a can of beans inside.

Demolition work was almost relaxing. Years ago, Dean had worked on a construction site, and he remembered enough to knew pretty well what he was doing and how. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction to rip his dad’s shit apart, leaving only the bare shell to fill with stuff he chose for himself.

He didn’t even try pretending he didn’t see the metaphor.

When he was hauling the stove out (and nearly breaking his back on the process), he noticed a dark-haired kid leaning on the wall opposite his apartment door. Dean stopped and offered a hesitant greeting. The kid didn’t say anything, just looked at Dean.

After a moment, Dean shrugged and continued hauling the stove out to wait for the garbage truck along the rest of the shit his dad had left behind. It looked like a garbage site, but fortunately enough, it would all be gone tomorrow.

Feeling lighter, Dean walked back inside. The kid was gone, but Dean wasn’t surprised: he guessed he was Lisa’s, and they would most likely meet again at some point later. Besides, the kid was just smart, not greeting the crazy man emptying the apartment of a long dead drunk.

He was on his knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor, when he heard a knock.

”Hi Dean!” Lisa greeted with a bright smile, peeking from the door. ”Oh, you’ve made progress. Lights and all!”

”Yeah,” Dean grinned. ”I’ve got electricity and a phone. I’m a real Kardashian, you know.”

Lisa let out a genuine laugh, and even the kid cracked a small smile. It felt nice.

”Would you like to come in?” Dean asked on impulse. ”Just don’t look into the bathroom yet, okay?”

Lisa took her time, looking carefully around. She stopped in front of the couch and asked with a raised brow, ”Are you planning on keeping the furniture?”

”Honestly? I don’t know. I’d like to, but I don’t know what to get to replace them.”

It was true: he had no experience in shopping, well, anything. In addition to that, the thought of buying completely new furniture made him… uncomfortable of sorts. It would be too much, regardless of having the money.

”You know, there’s this place near City Park. It’s a thrift store cum antique shop, a great place,” Lisa said. ”I’ll write the name and address down for you, if you like? I just don’t think it’s open on Sundays.”

Dean shook his head. ”No, that’s okay. I wouldn’t have the time to go anywhere today anyway. But I thanks for the info,” he said, offering Lisa a small smile.

”No problem. So, what are you planning?”

Dean looked around and shrugged. ”Um. I thought I’ll paint the walls and wax the floor. The kitchen needs to be redone, and I’m yet to see what’s really going on in the bathroom.” He grinned sheepishly. ”After that, I’m ordering new windows here and — your bay window was broken too, right?”

Lisa nodded. ”Yeah, we have one, Krissy has one broken window, and I think Mr. Malkovich has one too.”

”That’s the crazy bee guy,” the kid piped in.

 _”Ben!”_ Lisa chided, embarrassed. ”Sorry… our upstairs neighbor is kind of… peculiar.”

”He grows vegetables on the roof, keeps bees, and is seriously crazy,” Ben said flatly.

”Oo-kay,” Dean said. _Awkward_.

”Was the mean drunk your dad?” Ben asked suddenly.

 _”BEN!”_ Lisa hissed. ”I’m sorry,” she said with an apologetic smile.

Dean shrugged. ”What for? Ben’s right: my dad was a mean drunk. No need to be embarrassed about truth.”

Lisa blinked, slightly taken aback with his bluntness. Ben, on the other hand, gave Dean an appraising look.

After a moment of slightly uncomfortable silence, Dean glanced at the kitchen. ”I’d like to talk more, but I think I need to finish scrubbing the kitchen. Thanks again for the address to the furniture place.”

”Sure, no problem,” Lisa chimed, slightly too brightly to be completely genuine. ”Anything else you need? Do you know where to purchase paint or a new kitchen?”

When Dean just shook his head mutely, Lisa nodded.

”I’ll write some places down and leave the note on your mailbox tomorrow morning when I head out for work, okay? Great!” She didn’t wait for Dean’s answer, but turned to go, ushering Ben out. ”Ben, let’s go get some supper. You’ve got school tomorrow. Goodnight Dean!”

Dean waved his hand at them and turned back to the kitchen.

Fuck, but it was still filthy. He didn’t even want to think about the bathroom.

 

* * *

 

 _Pelican Furniture & Thrift Store_ was a yellow warehouse made of corrugated iron. It didn’t look like much on the outside, but Dean didn’t let it hinder his excitement. He was going in to buy himself new (or, recycled, but who the fuck cared) stuff, and he felt like a kid in a candy store. He couldn’t remember when had been the last time he had bought himself a piece of furniture.

Come to think of it, he wasn’t sure if he had ever bought himself a piece of furniture.

During the night, he had mulled Lisa’s words over, finally deciding that she was right: keeping the dingy stuff his dad had left him was just stupid. First of all, they were shitty; second, they were dirty as fuck. As a result, come the morning, Dean had hauled the remaining furniture outside to wait for the garbage truck.

He was going to keep the bed frame though, because he had always wanted a canopy bed. So sue him.

When he walked inside the warehouse, he was momentarily at a loss of what to do. There was _so much_ of everything, so many things to choose from, varying from modern pieces to stuff that seemed to come straight from Bonanza. After some careful contemplation (he refused to call it panic), he chose a dresser, a mattress, and a stuffed chair for the bedroom; a couch, a small side table, and a bookcase for the living room; a table and some chairs to the kitchen; and a slim dresser to the entryway to put mail and keys inside. He also found some nice shelves, a mirror, and a coat rack he decided to buy, because — why not?

Afterwards, he felt slightly lightheaded. He couldn’t believe he had just spent so much money on nice things. On himself. With some effort, he pushed the thoughts back in his mind and paid for the delivery. After all this time, he could enjoy a little. Right?

From _Pelican_ , Dean continued to a hardware store get some more renovation tools. He needed paint and floor wax, and at some point, he should try to figure out where to get a new stove and other kitchen appliances. Like a coffee machine.

Dear God, he would actually have a coffee machine!

At the clerk’s recommendation, Dean bought fast-drying paint to ensure the walls were dry by the time his new furniture arrived. It was a bit more expensive, but he let the clerk talk him into getting it, deciding that the price was acceptable to avoid paint smears in his new things.

Dean had forgotten how much fun renovating actually was. Previously, years ago when he had gotten odd jobs from the renovating companies, there had been the sense of rush, the need to get things done, and move to the next place. Now, Dean could take his time, sort of, as long as he remembered that his stuff was to arrive around eight. He still had several hours left, and he spent the time diligently painting the bedroom and living room walls white. It was a boring color, but also safe, and he could always paint on it, if he so wanted. Besides, white walls were clean and pure.

Empty.

A bit like him.

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t until he actually spread the papers of his tenants all over the kitchen table that he realized what this was all about.

Responsibility.

He was responsible for the building, for providing decent homes for the people living under his wing. Yeah, he knew it sounded cheesy, but he couldn’t help it. Because from what he had seen so far, dad hadn’t exactly been responsible. But that was nothing new: dad had never felt the necessity to be responsible about him and Sam.

Dean closed his eyes and sighed.

Sam.

He had managed to avoid thinking about his brother for a good while.

They had grown distant so many years ago. By the time Dean had had his epic fight with dad, Sam had already moved out, heading towards his degree with enthusiasm and applause. Dean had been so _angry_ at everything and everyone that he had just left, had slammed the door and stormed out of the house he and dad had been living in at the time. Dad’s slurred,  _”Yeah, run to your brother then — perhaps he could teach you to be something else than a waste of space!”_ had steeled him to trudge on alone, determined to make it on his own.

When Dean had finally gotten his head out of his ass and picked up the phone to call Sam, it had already been too late. Sam had been about to graduate, he had met a girl, and they were already living happily together. While Dean had still been stuck in the image of the nerdy and awkward little brother of his, Sam had grown up, and had no need for Dean anymore.

In fact, Sam had made a point telling how Dean should get a grip and sort his life out. Dean had gripped the phone in his hand, squeezed his eyes shut, and had silently taken in the confirmation of what he was to his family.

A disappointment.

Dean hadn’t called again.

Eventually, for reasons he didn’t want to think about too closely, Dean had picked up the habit of sending Sam a Christmas card and a birthday card. The dates were conveniently apart, and the cards were an easy way to tell his brother that Dean was still alive, and they didn’t require any reciprocation. Also, they were easy to discard if Sam still thought Dean was a loser.

Now, it was August, and the next card was still months away. Dean wondered whether he should send a new card and tell Sam about the building and the life Dean had hesitantly decided to try out.

He wondered that, if he told Sam his phone number, would Sam call him?

If he told Sam his new address, would he come to visit?

 

* * *

 

It was the Sunday two weeks after he had first stepped into dad’s old apartment, when Dean finally steeled himself to visit his tenants. From the papers Dean had gotten from Bobby, he had learned that the building had six apartments: Dad’s — or, well, _Dean’s_ — was on the first floor; the second and third floors had two flats each; and in the fourth floor there was one, bigger apartment that housed ’the bee-guy,’ as Ben had called him. Apparently, it also had an access to the roof.

During the renovation, he had been too busy to pay any attention to anything outside his little home. He didn’t know why he felt so nervous about the whole meet-the-tenants thing: he had already met Lisa and Ben, and it wasn’t like he could do worse as a landlord than his late old man. For starters, he wasn’t a mean drunk.

On one of his supply runs, Dean had bought a big notebook to write down everything that needed repairing or should otherwise be taken care of. On top of each right side page, he had written titles like ’general maintenance,’ ’hallways,’ and ’yard,’ and each tenant had their own page. It gave Dean a sense of purpose. And if the A4 sized notebook felt like an armor against the world (and his tenants) when he he held it against his chest, no-one needed to know.

He started with  apartment number 2 on second floor. Dean took the stairs carefully, checking out the hallway on his way up, making notes about the state of the walls and banisters. No. 2 was the first on right. A too-familiar smell hit him even before he knocked on the door.

Great.

Dean sighed and knocked anyway.

He thought he heard shuffling, then nothing for a moment. Then there was rattling, and the door opened. The stench of weed was so strong it made Dean’s eyes sting.

”Um, Martin Creaser?” Dean asked, blinking his eyes to regain his sight.

The man squinting back at him was a bit on the older side, sported a prominent stubble, and feverish eyes.

”Yeah?”

”I’m Dean Winchester, your landlord. Can I come in?”

The guy shifted his weight from one foot to the other, saying nothing.

Dean sighed. ”Mr. Creaser? Are you growing weed in your apartment?”

The guy’s eyes snapped into Dean’s. ”It’s for medical purposes. I have… a bad leg.”

”You have a bad leg,” Dean repeated flatly.

”Yeah! It aches real bad when it rains,” Mr. Creaser nodded enthusiastically.

”Right. And when did it last rain?”

Mr. Creaser stopped in mid-nod and blinked.

”Well, as long as you don’t have a meth lab here…” Dean’s voice trailed away at the panicked look in Mr. Creaser’s eyes.

_Oh, fuck, no…_

He didn’t have a chance to do or say anything before Mr. Creaser slammed the door shut.

Great. Just, fucking great. So he would have to call the cops.

Dean sighed and moved to the next door. Hopefully this tenant wasn’t hosting a crack den. According to his papers, apartment No. 3 was occupied by a F. Deveraux, no mention if it was a she or a he. Dean shrugged and knocked on the door.

A growling male voice called, ”Who is it?”

”Dean Winchester, your new landlord.”

The voice got closer. ”Got an ID?”

Dean raised a brow. ”Sure.”

”Leave it beside the door and step against the wall.”

Wait — what?

Dean blinked and glanced around the hallway. Was the guy serious?

”I’m serious.”

”Yeah, okay. Just a minute.”

Dean put his ID on the floor and backed against the hallway wall.

There was a sound of a deadbolt being slipped off, rattling of several locks and chains, and then the door opened a fraction, only to admit a hand that snatched Dean’s ID inside. A moment later, the door opened again and the hand beckoned Dean closer to return the ID.

”What do you want?” The gruff voice asked.

”I’ve only recently moved in. I’d like to know if there’s anything that needs to be fixed. Can I come in?”

The door opened slightly more, and Dean was greeted with a scowling man who looked a bit like a rabid Affenpincher. Dean had once met one. It hadn’t been pretty.

”Why?”

Dean considered his words carefully. ”I have no interest in your personal or professional life, Mr. Deveraux, as long as you it doesn’t cause harm to others or to the property. I’m only interested in taking care of the building.”

Mr. Deveraux narrowed his eyes. ”You’re nothing like your father.”

”I try not to be.”

”Damn right,” Mr. Deveraux grumbled.

Dean got the sense that it meant a whole lot more than just landlord things.

A moment of awkward silence stretched between them, until Dean cleared his throat.

”So, can I come in?”

”Yes, yes, don’t just stand there!” Mr. Deveraux waved him impatiently inside, hurrying to close the door right behind him.

The apartment was a studio with a nook for the bed, but the layout was hard to decipher due to the massive amount of tech crammed in. It looked a bit like the set of Matrix, but without the Gestapo outfits, sleek monitors, and the misuse of dentist chairs. Sensing the tension from the man beside him, Dean made sure he didn’t look at the monitors or touch anything. No need to aggravate the paranoid further.

”Is there anything you need from me, Mr. Deveraux? Problems with pipes, wiring, or heating? Are your windows whole?”

Mr. Deveraux darted his eyes around. ”Pipes are alright. Fine. Heating works. Wiring… ah… I’d prefer you didn’t touch that.”

”Uh,” Dean said eloquently.

”You never know what’s in there, right? But I’ve been around long enough to wire things properly,” Mr. Deveraux said with a wink.

Dean wasn’t sure what to think about it.

”Windows are passable,” Mr. Deveraux shrugged. ”I’d prefer bulletproof windows, but I can understand how they might feel a bit redundant. The walls aren’t bulletproof anyway.”

”Right.” _What the fuck?_

”Do you have a phone?”

Dean was now officially lost. ”What?”

Mr. Deveraux turned sharply around to rummage for something from a box beside the wall. After a short moment, he turned around with a triumphant grin.

”Now you do,” he said and shoved Dean a phone. ”It’s untraceable.”

”It works like this?” Dean asked, bewildered.

Mr. Deveraux stared at him like he was an idiot. ”Of course it doesn’t. What do you think I am, a wizard of Oz?”

”Ah, right. Of course,” Dean said a bit weakly.

”Okay, shoo. I’ll let you know if I need anything. I’ll pay my rent in cash I leave in your mailbox. Good day, Dean.”

Dean was practically shoved out of the door and left standing in the hallway, as Mr. Deveraux slammed the door shut and clicked all his locks on and slipped the deadbolt in place.

O-kay. A weed head and a paranoid tin hat man. Good start!

For a moment, Dean considered going back to his own apartment and dealing with the rest of his tenants later. But the time to collect rent was soon approaching, and he honestly wanted to introduce himself before he started asking them for money. With a sigh, he tucked Mr. Deveraux’s phone into his pocket, squared his shoulders, and climbed the stairs to the third floor.

The third floor looked cleaner than the second, but, knowing that Lisa and Ben lived in here, Dean wasn’t surprised. He had no idea who Mr. Lee Chambers in the apartment No. 4 was, which was probably why he was a bit taken aback when the door was opened by a young woman glaring daggers at him.

”Yeah?” And yeah, that was a pretty obvious challenge in her voice.

Dean gave the woman a friendly smile. ”Ah, is Lee Chambers at home? I’m Dean Winchester, his new landlord.”

”Dad’s not home, but I’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

”Yeah, sure. Is there anything I need to know about the apartment? Is everything okay? Do you need, like, new windows or something?”

As soon as Dean mentioned the windows, he remembered what Lisa had said at some point.

”You’re Krissy, aren’t you? Lisa said you have a broken window.”

Krissy narrowed her eyes at him. ”Oh, you’re the one Lisa’s been talking about.”

Dean wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing. After a moment of silence, Krissy rolled her eyes, opened her door, and beckoned Dean inside.

The apartment was clean and well kept. It was also very obviously Krissy’s apartment, because Dean couldn’t see a single thing that indicated her dad even bunked there regularly. Why the apartment was on his name, Dean didn’t know.

”The window’s busted and the bathroom pipes leak,” Krissy said, and Dean obediently wrote it down.

”Anything else?”

”What do you mean, ’anything else?’” Krissy frowned.

”Is there anything else you’d want me to do? I’ve only been here for two weeks, and I’ve never owned a building.”

Krissy raised a brow. ”You mean, apart from the obvious it’s-falling-apart-around-us things?”

Dean grinned sheepishly. ”Yeah. I’ve already made notes about plaster and paintwork, windows, and plumbing.”

Krissy blinked. ”You’re serious.”

”Well… I’m here. I could as well try to make things right. Right?” It came out as defensive.

Krissy held her hands up. ”Hey, not complaining here. If I come up with something, I’ll let you know, okay?”

Dean saluted and turned to leave.

”Okay, I know I should keep my mouth shut, but aren’t you even going to ask?”

Dean turned back to face her and cocked his head. ”No. As long as you pay your rent and behave, I don’t care.” He shrugged. ”At least you’re not growing weed,” he added dryly.

Krissy barked a laugh. ”So, you met Martin?” Dean must’ve looked a bit confused, because she shrugged. ”Martin’s not that bad. A sad, twitchy man, but he means no harm. And it’s not like weed’s the worst there is.”

Dean looked at her for a while without saying anything. There was something bristling and shifty under Krissy’s grins and nonchalance, something Dean recognized. She was someone who had been forced to grow old too early, without the chance to just be a normal teenager.

”True. Weed’s not the worst there is. Unfortunately.”

If Krissy’s expression was anything to go by, she understood well enough what Dean meant.

”Well, fuck me,” she muttered.

Before Dean’s brain caught up, he quipped, ”Sorry, no. You’re too young.” Then he realized what he had said and braced himself for whatever hissy fit that would follow.

Instead, Krissy snorted. ”No shit, grandpa.”

”Uh. Yeah. Whatever,” Dean said, slightly flustered. ”Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?”

Without further ado, he let himself out and shook his head as the door closed behind him. Krissy was a firecracker, but she seemed alright. Dean didn’t envy her father, though. The girl was trouble.

Before Dean even had the chance to knock on Lisa and Ben’s door, it swung open.

”I heard you talking to Krissy. Come in,” Lisa smiled and stepped aside to let him in.

Over the weeks, he and Lisa had talked enough for Dean to learn she worked two jobs as a waitress and a yoga teacher, but this was the first time Dean was in her apartment. Like all the apartments in the building, it was small: 1,5 bedrooms with a bathroom and a kitchen area. The bay window gave the living room area more space (even though light was dimmed due to the plywood-covered window frame), and Lisa had managed to make the place cozy and appealing. Dean made sure to tell her that, and smiled at her small blush.

”Thanks,” Lisa said. ”It’s small but we like it. Besides, less space means less to clean, right?”

Dean shrugged. He wouldn’t know.

”So, you probably want to know what needs to be fixed?” Lisa asked after a moment of slightly awkward silence.

”Yeah, sure. Window is the obvious one,” Dean said, pointing at the plywood, and Lisa smiled. It warmed something inside Dean, and he wasn’t sure what to make out of it.

Lisa walked him through the apartment, told Dean about the bigger and smaller things that needed fixing, and Dean wrote everything carefully down. At Dean’s prompt, Lisa gave him a piece of her mind about the general state of things in the building, which wasn’t as bad as he had originally thought. Seemed like the building was sturdy and the chipping plaster was merely surface damage. With some work, it would turn out pretty good.

”So, let me get this straight… you mean to renovate it yourself?”

They were sitting in Lisa’s small kitchen, drinking coffee Lisa had insisted on offering.

Dean nodded. ”Yeah. I used to do some renovating work years back. I liked it. And it’s not like I have something better to do.”

Lisa looked at him thoughtfully. ”Don’t you have a job?”

Dean dropped his eyes on the coffee mug in his hands.

Lisa let out a soft breath. ”I’m sorry. It’s none of my business,” she apologized.

Dean blinked, glanced at her, and turned to look out of the window. What the hell, he thought.

”You know… a while ago I didn’t have a home, let alone a job,” Dean said quietly. ”I didn’t even know my dad had been living here until I got the letter.”

From the corner of his eye, Dean saw Lisa’s eyes go wide and soft.

”Now, it seems like I have a home. Still no job, though, not that I would even know what I’d want to do. I figured that, meanwhile, I can just work around the building.”

”That sounds sensible,” Lisa said with a small smile.

They drank their coffee in companionable silence. Then Lisa asked, ”I assume you’ve been meeting the tenants, right?”

Dean nodded. ”Yeah. Only the guy upstairs left.”

Lisa grinned. ”Oh, Caspar! He’s nice. Peculiar, but nice. And very shy.”

”’The crazy bee guy’,” Dean quoted Ben.

”Ben can be very straightforward with his opinions,” Lisa said, shaking her head in fond exasperation. ”But it’s true that he is peculiar and that he keeps bees on the roof.”

”Okay.”

Lisa rolled her eyes at his dubious tone. ”Shoo now, Mr. Landlord. I need to start dinner. Would you want to come to eat with us later?”

Baffled at her question, it took Dean a moment to answer.

”Um, perhaps some other time? I mean, my new stove just arrived and I really want to try it.” Internally, he grimaced at what must sound like the lamest excuse in the world, never mind it was true.

Lisa looked at him with something akin to amusement. ”Have fun. Don’t burn the place down, okay?”

As Dean slowly took the stairs up to the fourth floor, he thought about how Lisa’s smile made him feel. It was weird. It wasn’t like he hadn’t encountered pretty smiles and flirty eyes countless of times before, although they have been sparse and farther between lately. Over the years, Dean had had his fair share of relationships, with both genders, but they had usually been one-night stands due to his drifting lifestyle. ’Lov’em and leave ’em’ was easy to carry out when you were in town only for a week or two for or a couple of months tops. Now, it was different.

Besides, there was Ben.

While Dean didn’t feel that bad about his one night stands, he had always made sure there were no strings attached. He remembered enough of his own childhood, and he didn’t want to inflict that on anyone else. He was never that horny or drunk. He made sure of it.

His contemplation was cut short as he stepped on the 4th floor and looked up.

The walls around him were painted bright blue, with fluffy white clouds and stylized birds flying around. To his right was a door. A yellow door. With bees.

Dean gaped.

Checking his papers, he saw that the tenant was a Mr. Caspar Malkovich. Dean raised his brow at the last name. Malkovich. He raised his eyes to take a better look at the walls and the decorations, then dropped his gaze back at the name.

Fitting. Very _Being John Malkovich._

Shaking his head, Dean went to knock on the door. When he got no answer, he knocked a bit harder and called, ”Mr. Malkovich? It’s Dean Winchester, your new landlord. Can I talk to you for a minute?”

After a moment, there were steps, the door opened.

The first thing Dean noticed was the bright blue eyes, the exact shade of the painted wall behind him. Then the door opened a bit more, and he saw the wings.

Mr. Malkovich had a set of fairy wings attached to his back. The kind you saw on little girls playing fairies. On them, the wings looked cute, but on a 6 ft, built-up man, they just looked disturbing.

”Yes?” The man asked with a gravelly voice.

Flustered, Dean shook his head to clear it. ”Um. Hi. I’m Dean Winchester, your new landlord.” He extended his hand at the man, who tilted his head and looked at it. When it became obvious he wasn’t going to shake it, Dean dropped his hand, feeling slightly embarrassed.

”I’ve been meeting with the residents, asking if there were anything in their apartments that needs fixing, or if there’s anyth—”

”I was just about to go to the roof,” Mr. Malkovich interrupted mildly. ”Would you like to join me?” He didn’t wait for Dean’s answer, but turned and started walking further into the apartment.

It took Dean a moment to realize the man expected him to follow. He turned to close the door, left his notebook on the chair near the door, and hurried after the man. He hadn’t seen where Mr. Malkovich had gone, and stopped in the middle of the empty room, unsure of what to do.

A dark-haired head peeked in from the window. ”Coming?”

”Um. Yeah,” Dean managed and hurried to the window.

The window led to a small balcony with a ladder to the roof. Not overly fond of heights, Dean didn’t look down as he climbed up. When he got to the roof, he forgot his fears: the roof was like a wild garden, full of flowers, tall grass, and dozens of pots of different sizes and shapes. Scattered around the roof were several tall wooden boxes. The buzzing belied them to be beehives.

In the middle of the roof stood Dean’s tenant, in his sparkling wings, arms held wide.

”Beautiful, isn’t it?” He asked with a serene smile.

Dean nodded. ”Yeah, it is. Do you really grow vegetables here?”

”Yes. Usually I grow tomatoes, herbs, spinach, arugula, cucumber, pumpkins, strawberries… that sort of things. This year I’ve been experimenting with sweet potatoes, sunroot, and black salsify. They are delicious in a casserole. Have you ever tried it?”

The blue eyes looked straight at him with an open, guileless gaze.

”Uh. No.” Dean didn’t even know what the hell sunroot, arugula, or black salsify were.

”Oh, and honey! I keep bees, see?”

Mutely, Dean nodded as the man darted around the beehives.

”Mr. Malkovich…” Dean wasn’t sure of what to say.

”Yes?”

”Why are you wearing wings?” It wasn’t what Dean had meant to say, but now that it was out, he was interested in the answer.

Mr. Malkovich stopped and turned slowly around.

”It’s because I’m an Angel of the Lord,” he said, as if Dean was being stupid on purpose.

Dean had nothing to say to that. He stared as the man turned to continue his business with the bees, humming contentedly, the wings swaying and sparkling as he moved. He seemed completely oblivious to Dean’s presence, and, after a moment, Dean turned to leave the roof.

Once back inside the apartment, Dean wrote Mr. Malkovich a note, asking him to tell Dean if there was anything he needed. He took a superficial glance around the room, noticing it was clean and well-kept, and that all walls had been painted with the same style as the walls in the hallway. In addition to that, there was a huge amount of kitsch and glitter on the tabletops and on the walls, pretty much in tune with the guy’s fairy wings.

Ben had been right. It seemed like the bee-guy was batshit crazy.

 

* * *

 

It took him some calling around to get Mr. Creaser out. Turned out that growing weed wasn’t that uncommon in the area, but obviously the authorities drew the line on a meth lab. The sorry ass of a man actually believed that if he stayed still and silent, he would be left alone. Sadly, that wasn’t the case.

After getting rid of the twitchy Martin, Dean finally got the chance to thoroughly inspect the apartment. It was a mess. It took him a good while to clean it properly, to paint the walls, change the carpet, and fix the bathroom with a new toilet seat. Honestly, he didn’t want to think what had clogged the previous one. Dean liked to sleep at night.

Dean knew he had to get a new tenant, but he wasn’t sure how. Should he put an ad on the newspaper? Or would a website work better? Or the info board in the local grocery store? How would he even know _who_ he wanted as a tenant?

Turned out, he didn’t have to think about it, because: Lisa.

”Is Martin’s old place still free?” She asked one morning when they met by the mailboxes.

Dean frowned. ”Yeah. I haven’t gotten the time to do anything about it yet. Why?”

”Well, there’s this young guy at the studio. He’s looking for a cheap place of his own.”

”Oh, okay,” Dean shrugged, still slightly groggy due to lack of caffeine. ”Ask him to stop by whenever.”

”Will do,” Lisa chimed, as she headed off. ”See you later, Dean!”

”Yeah, later,” Dean answered, but she was already out.

The guy turned up a couple of days later. Early, which Dean was embarrassed to realize as he scrambled to open the door shirtless, brushing his teeth.

”Are you Dean?” A short, compact-looking young Asian guy with big, bright eyes asked him as soon as Dean opened the door.

”Um. Yeah,” Dean mumbled, still holding a toothbrush.

”I’m Kevin Tran. Lisa sent me,” the guy said. ”You had a place for rent?” He added, when Dean’s sleep-addled brain refused to comprehend what was happening.

”Oh. Right. Sorry,” Dean managed, waved at them with his hand in a way he hoped Kevin would understand as ’just a moment,’ and hurried off to get rid of his toothbrush and put some clothes on.

When he returned, he realized there was a middle-aged woman standing beside Kevin, staring at Dean with a narrowed look. Great. Dean had just paraded half-naked in front of his possible new tenant’s mother. He flashed her a quick smile, and was met with somewhat cool tightening of her lips.

”So, do you want to see the place? It’s on the second floor,” Dean offered, and waited for the affirmative nods from them both, before heading up the stairs. He could feel Mrs. Tran’s judging disapproval about the state of the stairwell and tried his best to ignore it.

”Here we are,” he said with a smile as he opened the door. ”It’s fully renovated after the latest tenant, and everything should be properly functional. The windows are sound, the plumbing works, and the toilet seat is brand new.” He beckoned the Trans inside. ”Take a look around, if you like.”

Kevin bounced in with barely contained enthusiasm, his mother following a bit more hesitantly. Dean stayed behind, leaning on the doorframe, fully content with the results of his work.

”What was wrong with this place if you needed to do such a big renovation?” Mrs. Tran asked with feigned innocence, but her eyes were sharp. ”Was this a crack den?”

 _”Mom!”_ Kevin hissed in mortification.

Something in Mrs. Tran’s eyes made Dean forego evasion. ”A weed jungle and a meth lab, actually,” he said bluntly. ”The weed itself would’ve probably been enough for me to get rid of the tenant, but the meth part was too much. There’s a kid in this building, after all.”

Mrs. Tran pressed her lips together in a tight line. ”And why would you rent a place to an addict in a first place?”

”I didn’t,” Dean said flatly. ”This building was my dad’s, and I inherited it only a little while ago.” He took a deep breath. ”Look, ma’am. I’m new to this stuff. I wouldn’t even know where to look for a new tenant, and the reason you’re here is because of Lisa. I’m only interested in getting this place rented to a decent person.”

”And how do you determine if someone’s a ’decent person?’ Does it involve running around topless?”

Dean’s jaw dropped, because _what the fuck?_

”I’m not into kids, you know.”

”I’m nineteen —” Kevin interjected.

Dean didn’t avert his gaze from Mrs. Tran’s stare. ”Yeah, I’m 36. You’re a kid.”

” — And I’m not gay,” Kevin continued.

”Like it mattered,” Mrs. Tran said, haughty.

”Oh my God, mom,” Kevin exclaimed in exasperation. ”Thanks for the ride, goodbye now.”

”Kevin, I’m just worried —”

”I know, but there’s no need. I can take him out in two seconds and you know it.”

Dean blinked at the exchange. _Take who out in two seconds, and, what?_

Mrs. Tran shook her head and sighed. ”Well, I guess you know better, as always,” she said and sniffed. Kevin rolled his eyes, gave her a quick hug, and shooed her out.

”Okay, sorry about that,” he said, after the door had closed behind his mother. ”She’s okay, but sometimes she’s a bit…”

”Protective?” Dean offered.

”Insane,” Kevin said dryly. ”She has that passive-aggressive martyr thing all perfected. It can be exhausting, you know?”

Growing up without a mother, Dean didn’t know, but he nodded anyway. ”So, what do you do, Kevin? Lisa said she knows you from the studio,” he asked instead.

”Oh, right. I teach Krav Maga there, three times a week,” Kevin said. ”And I study Biological Sciences at UNO.”

”Ah. Okay. Sounds cool.”

Kevin grinned. ”You have no idea what Krav Maga is, have you?”

”Not a clue,” Dean admitted with a sheepish smile.

”It’s a self-defense system originally developed for the Israeli military. That’s what I meant when I said to my mom that I can take you out in —”

” — Two seconds,” Dean concluded. ”Impressive.”

Kevin shrugged. ”The idea is to avoid confrontation, but if that’s unsafe or impossible, it promotes countering in the quickest and most efficient way.”

”Uh. Right.” Dean blinked. ”So, do you want the flat?”

Kevin grinned. ”Hell yeah!”

”Well then,” Dean nodded. ”I have the papers downstairs.”

They let themselves out of the apartment and came face to face with Mr. Deveraux. Dean was surprised, because it’s highly uncommon to meet the man during daytime. Something about government spooks being active in the morning, like Mr. Deveraux had whispered one Saturday evening.

Mr. Deveraux had his pissed-off Affenpincher look on his face again, as he squinted dubiously at Kevin. Dean had to give it to the kid for not being perturbed, but he guessed Kevin had faced worse, having the mom he had.

”What’s this talk about Israeli military?” Mr. Deveraux demanded.

Somehow, Dean wasn’t surprised at all.

When neither of them answered, Mr. Deveraux jabbed a finger at Kevin’s chest. ”You’re not Israeli,” he said accusingly.

”I’m a ninja,” Kevin deadpanned.

Mr. Deveraux’s eyes widened. ”Oooh,” he breathed, nodding slowly several times. Then he clapped Kevin once on the shoulder, saying, ”Good to have you around, son,” before hurrying back into his apartment.

Dean and Kevin stared at the shut door for a moment, before they glanced at each other, and blinked.

”So, the papers,” Dean said after a couple seconds of bemused silence.

”Yeah,” Kevin agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This](http://41.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m43im2a23t1r3ybawo1_500.jpg) is what an Affenpincher looks like. :P


	3. Crossing Point

It was strange, having a home and a daily routine.

As a kid, Dean had always thought that being an adult meant your life would be unbelievably boring, following the same route day in and day out. Of course, that had been when he had thought he would grow up to have a regular job, perhaps get a wife and a couple of kids, and lead a life he had observed some of their old neighbors do.

Years later, when Dean didn’t have a home, let alone a family of his own, he had gradually resigned to the thought that he would never have a chance for them. Dreams of a place of his own and a family to come home to were for people who deserved them. They weren’t for losers like him.

And now, he couldn’t believe he actually had what he had dreamed about. Or at least some of it.

He had a home: he had his apartment with a bedroom, a living room, a bathroom, and a small kitchen; he had the small patch of grass on the back yard; he had a building to take care of. He didn’t have a job as such, but the building was an endless list of chores and maintenance, and it was enough to fill his days. And, since he didn’t have a mortgage to pay off (and wasn’t that strange?), the rent money was enough to give him a meager living. In other words: as long as he had food, fuel for Baby, and money to pay for the bills to keep Marytower going, he was content.

As for family, well…

His tenants were a weird bunch of people. Kevin and Krissy were like annoying younger siblings he never wanted; Mr. Deveraux — or Frank, as he demanded Dean call him — was like the looney uncle with a shotgun; and Mr. Malkovich the-fairy-winged-cuckoo was the crazy cousin everybody pretended didn’t exist.

That left Lisa and Ben, who were perhaps Dean’s favorite people on the whole building. Ben was a really smart kid who rolled his eyes at Dean’s clumsy jokes, but liked it when Dean took him to play baseball every now and then. At some point, Ben had mentioned that his dad was a dick, saying it with a sideways glance at Dean. Dean had shrugged with pointed nonchalance and stated that sometimes adults were dicks, either because they chose to or they didn’t have a choice. Ben hadn’t said anything, but he had relaxed somewhat. Oddly enough, it had felt like Dean had passed some kind of a test.

Speaking of siblings, Dean still hadn’t contacted Sam.

He thought about it often, though. When he sat on his couch sipping beer, wondering how lucky he was to have _this_ , he sometimes caught himself staring at the weird-ass spy-proof phone Frank had given him. Sometimes he even reached out to grab the phone, his thumb hovering over the keys, as his mind helpfully provided the number he had memorized years ago. Then he closed his eyes, shook his head, and put the phone back on the side table. He didn’t even know if Sam still had the same number. Or if Sam even wanted to hear from Dean.

Sam leaving to college had kickstarted the fights between Dad and Dean. Before that, Sammy had been the buffer between them, distracting Dean and placating Dad. But after he was gone, there was no-one to ease out their tempers, no-one to tell them to cut the crap and shut up already. It had ended badly.

Dean had no idea if Dad had ever told Sam about their fight, or if Sam only knew Dean’s side of the story. Not that Dean had told Sam much. His timing had been shitty, that one time he had called, and Sam had been too caught up with his graduation to listen to Dean, who in turn had acted like a jerk and ended the call as soon as possible.

Dean hadn’t seen Sam graduate, because he hadn’t talked with him long enough to give Sam the chance to invite him. He hadn’t wanted to risk it, in case Sam didn’t want him to be there. It had been easier to cut the call short than bear the awkwardness of not being invited, let alone told to stay the fuck away.

To be honest, Dean wasn’t even sure if Sam even got the postcards Dean sent him twice a year. He only had the address Sam had given him years ago, to the house in Chicago Sam had said he and his girlfriend were about to rent. Dean didn’t know if they still lived there or if they were even together anymore. It had been years, after all.

However, he still sent the cards.

 

* * *

 

One Saturday evening, encouraged by a beer, Dean picked up the phone, quickly tapped the number in, and lifted the phone to his ear. He could hear his heart hammering in his ears and realized his hands were clammy. Nervous, he swallowed at the sudden dryness in his throat.

After what seemed like minutes, the call connected.

The number was still valid.

Dean’s heartbeat skyrocketed as he waited. What if it was a wrong number? What if it wasn’t Sam who answered? What if —

_”Hello?”_

Dean froze.

_”Hello? …I can hear you breathing, you know.”_

Dean’s breath caught in his throat.

_”Dean?”_

The voice was soft and hopeful, and it was too much.

Dean ended the call with a violent press of his thumb, flung the phone on the other end of the couch, and buried his head in his hands.

_Fuck!_

 

* * *

 

It was immensely gratifying to see how the building slowly recovered from its years of negligence. Inch by inch, step by step, and wall by wall, Dean renovated it, pouring in his care and concentration to make it better. It was a slow going, of course, but Dean didn’t mind. He had nowhere else to be, after all.

Had someone told him years ago that one day, he would use the knowledge gathered on several building sites to renovate a property of his own, Dean would’ve laughed. Now, he only wished he had paid more attention to the different procedures. Perhaps it would’ve made things easier.

On the other hand, Dean enjoyed himself enormously as he learned through trial and error, dug into books and brochures, and experimented on what paint and plaster worked best. He could lean back and look at the renovated, clean wall, cross his arms on his chest, and nod: _I did that._

By fixing Marytower he slowly started to fix himself. As he helped to resuscitate the building that had been ready to fall apart, he defied his dad’s words from years back, and redefined his own worth.

At least in this, Dean wasn’t a waste of space.

 

* * *

 

There was a pan just outside his door, covered with a tin foil. Dean blinked at it several times, but it stayed put. He frowned and looked around. There was no-one in sight, and he couldn’t hear anyone moving in the hallway. The pan was still warm, when he reached down to touch it. Hesitantly, Dean lifted one corner of the foil, and his mouth watered at the delicious smell. It seemed to be some kind of casserole, but he couldn’t decipher anything more from the smell or the looks of the food.

He was standing outside his door, frowning at the casserole, when Lisa walked in.

”Hi Dean!” She greeted cheerily. ”What’s that?”

”I have no idea,” Dean admitted. ”I was about to take the thrash out and this was just left here. It’s some kind of a casserole, I think.”

He offered the pan to let Lisa take a whiff.

She inhaled deeply and grinned. ”That smells wonderful. I bet it tastes as good.” Then she frowned. ”Is that — a bee?”

”What?” Dean asked and turned the pan to see what Lisa was pointing at.

It _was_ a bee. Drawn with a sharpie in cartoon style on the corner of the foil so that it was flat on the side of the pan.

_What the hell?_

”Well, that defines the identity of your secret admirer,” Lisa smirked. ”You are something special. Caspar has never given me anything else but a jar of honey every once in a while.”

”What?” Dean asked again.

”Mr. Malkovich, remember? He cultivates vegetables and keeps bees. He must like you if he cooked for you.”

”The crazy bee guy?”

Lisa rolled her eyes. ”Now you sound like Ben.”

Dean shrugged and grinned sheepishly. For a moment, they stood in slightly awkward silence. Then Lisa cleared her throat.

”Actually…” she said slowly. ”Ben is spending the night at friend’s. Would you like to come over later?”

Dean lifted his gaze from the casserole to meet Lisa’s calm eyes.

”Uh…” He blinked. ”Sure?”

Lisa smiled. ”Great. Is around eight okay?”

Dean nodded dumbly and lifted his hand in a little wave as Lisa turned towards the stairs, and then, little dazedly, Dean turned and went inside. He walked into the kitchen and carefully lowered the casserole on the counter. He went through the motions of helping himself a decent portion, packed the leftover away, and sat at the table to eat.

He was halfway through, when he had to lower his fork on the plate and take a couple of deep breaths to steady himself.

He had a date. With Lisa. Tonight.

Carefully, Dean rested his palms flat on the table and stared fixedly at a point a little behind his plate.

So, he had a date. No reason to be nervous, right? People had dates all the time. Nothing new there. Just two adults, alone, having a good time.

Except that Dean didn’t do dates.

Sure, he’d had sex, quite a lot of it, actually, although things had sort of dried up recently. He liked sex, both as the giving and the receiving party, and enjoyed it with men and women both. But Dean didn’t date. Besides, being always on the move and not having a steady home made dating difficult anyway, so casual sex was easier.

But now? Now Dean had a home and he was about to go on an actual date.

He wasn’t sure whether to laugh or hyperventilate.

Lisa was nice. More than nice. Lisa was gorgeous, funny, sexy, and smart, and he had invited Dean over. Telling that Ben was away for the night was as clear a signal as anything, and Dean was sure he knew what she was after. Pretty sure. Almost. Maybe.

He closed his eyes, dropped his head on his hands and groaned.

Somehow, he got through the couple of hours of waiting. He emptied his plate (The casserole was damn good!), cleaned the kitchen, took a shower, and brushed his teeth, just to be on the safe side. After that, he spent a ridiculous amount of time in front of his wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear, as if he had options. Which he didn’t.

At the end, he decided to go with clean jeans and a pale grey Henley, only to turn back from the door to go back and change it into dark blue. Rolling his eyes at himself, Dean exited the flat before he turned back to change his shirt again.

As he climbed up the stairs, Dean wondered momentarily what he would say if he came across to someone. _Like who_ , he huffed at himself almost instantly and shook his head. Frank came out very rarely and almost never at evenings; Kevin was out most evenings, either teaching or studying, Krissy was out of town this week; and Dean was quite sure he had never seen Mr. Malkovich outside his apartment, not counting that day on the roof.

And so what, if someone saw him? Dean was an adult and perfectly allowed to go and visit his tenant. Armed with that thought, Dean knocked on Lisa’s door.

”Hi,” he greeted as Lisa opened the door. ”You look nice.”

And she did. She was dressed in a creamy white jersey and narrow black jeans, and her hair was open and tumbling in soft curls around her face. She was barefoot, and somehow it all made Dean want to hug her close and bury his face in her hair.

”Thanks,” Lisa smiled. ”Come in.”

She walked into the kitchen, and Dean was left staring at her swaying hips, before he caught himself. He blinked and turned to close the door behind him.

”You want some red wine?” Lisa called from the kitchen.

”Uh, yeah, sure,” Dean answered, and following Lisa’s example, he kicked off his shoes. He wandered towards the living room and sat hesitantly on the couch, not really sure what was the decorum in these situations.

”I think there’s a game on,” Lisa said with a smile, as she came back, holding a wine glass in each hand. She handed the other to Dean, sat right beside him, tucking her legs under her, and leaning slightly on his side.

”Okay,” Dean said, and flicked the TV on.

It was surprisingly nice. Awkward, sure, but also nice. Lisa didn’t do idle small talk, her sense of humor was dirty enough for the stupid jokes Dean loved, and her frame fitted just perfectly under his arm. At some point, Lisa slipped into the kitchen to fetch the wine bottle, and after they had drunk it, they were both slightly flushed and smiling.

It was Lisa, who kissed him first. Even though Dean had sort of been expecting it, her lips surprised him and he froze.

Lisa drew back with a slight frown. ”I’m not reading this wrong, am I?”

Dean shook his head. ”No, definitely not. It’s just…” he sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. ”I’m not very good at this, you know? It’s been years and — I really don’t know how to date.”

Lisa cocked her head and gave him a long look. ”Do you want this? Want me?”

”Oh God, yes,” Dean groaned.

”Well, then,” Lisa smirked and stood up in one fluid motion. ”Come on,” she said and held out her hand.

Staring her with wide eyes, Dean took her hand. Lisa led him to bed, tugging off his shirt on the way. There was no need for words, as their hands and lips took care of the talking. When Lisa pushed Dean on his back on the bed, he went willingly, enjoying the sight and feel of her above him, hardly believing he was to have her.

Lisa braced her hands on Dean’s chest as she rode him, eyes closed, and mouth slightly open. He held on her hips, supporting her, happy to let her take her pleasure as she saw fit. It was how Dean enjoyed sex best: being the one to give. He got off watching Lisa chase her orgasm, admiring the rippling of her muscles and the swaying of her breasts. It had been ages since he had last had the chance to have someone pressed close, skin to skin and lips to lips. He had nearly forgotten how good it felt.

Afterwards, Lisa fell asleep curled on his side. Dean stroked her hair and trailed his fingers along her spine, wondering what would happen in the morning. Would she kick him out, annoyed he had stayed the night? Or would she think they were dating properly now? Troubled, he drifted off in a fitful sleep.

Turned out, there was no need to fret.

Lisa woke him up with a grin, poked him on the side, and pecked a kiss on his nose.

”There’s coffee in the kitchen, help yourself. I need to run some errands and go get Ben. Thanks for the night,” she said with a wink and left.

Dean was left lying on his back, blinking. So, there was no awkwardness, at least on her part. That was nice. And, to be honest, new. He gathered his clothes, made sure the bed looked respectable, and made his way back into his own apartment.

Nevertheless, he ducked his head in embarrassment at Krissy’s knowing smirk as they passed each other in the stairs.

 

* * *

 

It didn’t take Dean more than a couple of days to finish the casserole. After he was done, he washed the pan, making sure he scrubbed it properly, and went to return it to its owner.

The fourth floor looked just as weird as it had the first time Dean had seen it. But now, instead of gaping, Dean realized he was smiling at the painted walls and the bees on the door. He had his back to the door when it opened.

”Hello,” Mr. Malkovich greeted somberly. This time, his wings were pale mauve, and he had a glittery tiara on his head. Dean was proud how he didn’t gape.

”Um, hi.” Dean offered him a hesitant smile. ”I came to return your pan. Thank you for the casserole, it was friggin’ awesome.”

Mr. Malkovich’s face split into a wide smile, and, without a conscious thought, Dean mimicked it.

”Oh, good!” The man snatched the pan from Dean’s hands and hurried inside, leaving the door open. Dean huffed and shook his head, and stood where he was.

”Why are you there?”

Dean wasn’t sure where he was supposed to be, but Mr. Malkovich’s frown indicated that the doorway wasn’t the place.

”Come in, I have lemonade.” Without further ado, the man darted across the room to the window that led the way to the roof.

Dean shrugged. Why the hell not?

Shutting the door behind him, Dean followed Mr. Malkovich up to the roof, once again amazed about the lush garden the man had managed to create in such a small space. He noticed a new greenhouse on the side, and there was a sunshade and a couple of wicker recliners in the middle of the roof. Mr. Malkovich was standing beside them with a shy smile.

”Try it,” he said, offering Dean a glass filled with pale drink. ”I made it myself. It’s mint with lemon balm and honey.” He cocked his head to the side like an eager bird, watching raptly at Dean’s expression as he sipped the drink.

Dean’s brows shot up as flavors exploded in his mouth. ”Wow! This is… just, wow!”

Mr. Malkovich’s nose crinkled as he laughed, a low, rumbling sound that made Dean’s toes curl and warmth bloom in his chest.

”Sit. Have some strawberries,” Mr. Malkovich said, fussing around a little.

Dean wasn’t sure why, but he sat on the wicker chair, popped some strawberries in his mouth, and took another drink of the home-made lemonade. Mr. Malkovich sat on the opposite chair and watched Dean with a serene smile. It probably should’ve been disturbing, what with wings and tiaras and all, but Dean found it oddly relaxing. The man only wanted him to eat and drink what he offered Dean. There was no forced small talk, no questions, no demands.

It was… peaceful.

After a moment, Mr. Malkovich stood up.

”Excuse me,” he said with his gravelly voice. ”I have an appointment.”

Dean watched with bemusement as the man stood up and unhurriedly walked towards the beehives. Seemed like said appointment was with the bees. Mr. Malkovich moved from one beehive to the next, a gentle sway on his steps, apparently talking to the bees as he went. His tiara sparkled in the sunlight and his wings fluttered in the soft wind, and it was so surreally comfortable that Dean sighed and poured himself another glass of lemonade.

It wasn’t until Dean left, a good while later, that he realized he had been smiling the whole time.

 

* * *

 

Three almost-but-not-quite phone calls later, Dean finally decided to get a grip and actually talk to his brother. True, he had made the same decision a couple of times already and both times chickened out as soon as Sam had answered, but this time, it was going to be different. Dean was sure of it.

It was Saturday again. Dean knew this because he had bought a wall calendar where he ticked a day off every morning. It was early October and the days were slightly cooler and nights a bit darker, but it was still New Orleans. Which equalled hot and humid.

Dean tapped in the number and, unlike the previous times, didn’t sit on the couch, but started pacing back and forth in his living room. He had no idea if it made any difference, but he felt more confident. He could do this, he real—

_”Hello?”_

Just like every other time, Dean froze. But this time, he forced himself to breathe, to keep on pacing.

”Hi Sam,” he said hoarsely.

There was a moment of complete silence. In that short span of time, Dean’s heart lurched unpleasantly and he closed his eyes.

Fuck.

_”Dean? Is it really you?”_

”Yeah.”

 _”Are you alright? Where are you?”_ Sam’s voice was strangled and thick, his words tumbling out in a rush. _”Was it you, previously?”_

”Yeah,” Dean said again, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as he paced.

_”I knew it! I tried to call you back, but I couldn’t trace your number, not even with our equipment.”_

”Oh. I have this weird phone…” Dean’s voice trailed away. ”What do you mean, even with your equipment?”

_”Um, I work in the FBI. Didn’t Dad tell you?”_

Dean stopped to stare out of the kitchen window. The FBI. Sammy had gone a long way.

_”Dean?”_

He drew breath. ”Yeah. No, I didn’t know. I only heard from Dad a couple of months ago when I received a letter.” He paused. ”Dad’s dead, Sam.”

A moment of silence.

 _”Dean, that was years ago,”_ Sam said, the frown evident in his voice.

Of course Sam knew. Suddenly exhausted, Dean closed his eyes and sighed. Who was he kidding?

”I gotta go.”

_”Dean, wait — ”_

”Bye, Sam,” Dean said and ended the call. For a moment, he stared at the phone with unseeing eyes before turning it off and placing it carefully on the kitchen table. Then he turned, flipped the lights off, and went to bed.

 

* * *

 

It took Dean time to gather up the courage to call Sam again. He debated over it for a while, beating himself up for being stupid, and just sucked it up and went for it.

At the end, he sighed resignedly, picked up the phone, and made the call.

Sam answered almost immediately.

_”Dean?”_

”Yeah,” he said gruffly.

 _”Dean, I’m sorry about the last time,”_ Sam hurried to say, his words tripping over themselves. _”I never meant to push, I was just so glad to finally hear from you.”_

”Uh… It’s okay, Sammy.”

 _”Fuck, this is so weird,”_ Sam huffed. _”No-one else calls me Sammy.”_

Dean winced. ”Sorry. I’ll stop,” he said, subdued.

_”No, no, that’s not what I mean. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you.”_

”Really?”

There was a pause. _”I’ve missed you for over ten years.”_

Dean tried to swallow, but there was a strange lump in his throat that made his breath hitch. ”You have?” He managed. It came out as a kind of a sob, and Dean would later probably be mortified.

 _”Of course I have. You’re my brother,”_ Sam said with a thick voice.

There was a moment of slightly awkward silence, as they both composed themselves.

Then Sam cleared his throat.

 _”I said I don’t want to push, and I mean it, but… Are you okay? Do you need any help? Don’t hang up on me, please,”_ Sam hurried to add. _”I just need to know, okay?”_

”Yeah, I’m okay, don’t worry.”

 _”Good,”_ Sam breathed, relieved.

They fell silent again. Dean fidgeted with a stray piece of yarn sticking form the seam of his jeans and chewed his lip.

”I’m sorry,” he eventually said.

_”For what?”_

”I don’t know how to do this. Talk to you, I mean.”

 _”It’s okay. To be honest, I don’t know how to talk to you either,”_ Sam admitted. _”I’m scared I’ll push you away. And I don’t want to do that. I want you in our lives.”_

”Your lives?” Dean echoed, emphasizing the plural.

 _”Yeah,”_ Sam said. _”Ruby, my wife, is pregnant. I’m going to be a dad!”_

Dean could feel the million watt smile through Sam’s tone. He gripped the phone in his hand and swallowed.

”That’s… awesome.”

_”I know. And I’m scared shitless.”_

Dean frowned. ”Why?”

 _”Are you kidding?”_ Sam’s voice was incredulous. _”It’s huge. What if I screw it up?”_

The unsaid ’What if I’m like our dad?’ hung heavily between them.

”You won’t,” Dean said firmly. He heard Sam let out a breath and knew he had caught the double meaning.

_”Thanks.”_

”No problem, Sammy.”

There was a noise in the background and Sam’s muffled voice as he answered, then some rustling, as he removed his hand from the speaker.

 _”Shit, I gotta go. Ruby’s morning sickness is actually around-the-clock sickness, and she wants me there, so…”_ Sam’s voice was apologetic.

”Yeah, sorry. I won’t keep you longer,” Dean hurried to say.

 _”No, I didn’t mean it like that,”_ Sam huffed. _”I’m really glad you called back. I’d like to talk to you more, okay? Whenever you feel like it.”_

”Uh… sure.”

 _”I really mean it. Take care Dean,”_ Sam said softly.

”Yeah, okay,” Dean answered, feeling a bit bewildered.

They said their goodbyes, and then the line went silent.

Dean felt like he had run a marathon. His head was pounding and he felt tired to the bone, but somehow, he felt lighter.

It felt surprisingly good.

 

* * *

 

Dean and Lisa never put any specific label on their relationship. They were easy and comfortable with each other, happy to either spend time watching TV or fucking each other’s brains out. Well, to be honest, their interaction tended to lean towards the latter, but it wasn’t all they did together. Sometimes Lisa invited Dean to dinner with her and Ben, and sometimes Dean took them to the park.

It wasn’t dating, but it wasn’t a regular fuckbuddy arrangement either.

If Dean was being brave, he would perhaps declare them being friends with benefits. He didn’t, though. He had never really had friends.

A couple of weeks in, after some very satisfying lovemaking, Lisa rested her head on his chest and told him about Ben’s father; how he had thrown her out after learning about her pregnancy, only to look for her years later, demanding after his parental rights. Dean told her about the rows he had had with his dad about Dean being bi; how his dad had never accepted it, and how it had spurned on their eventual downfall.

She told him how she had two jobs to support herself and Ben, and, despite being overworked, she enjoyed both teaching yoga and working in Benny’s restaurant.

He told her about the dozens of jobs he had had over the years, and how his experience on construction sites had helped with the renovations of the building.

She didn’t tell him about the scars in her back or how she flinched despite herself, if Dean made a too-sudden move.

He didn’t tell her about the years he had spent sleeping in shelters and alleyways, or how he had acquired the money to survive.

It was okay. They had an understanding. And they never brought any of that up outside bedroom.

 

* * *

 

A week after their first proper conversation, Dean called Sam again.

After that, it became a thing. Dean would call once in a week, and they would talk carefully, trading information hesitantly back and forth, like they weren’t sure what was allowed and what was not. It was stilted and, for the most part, one-sided, but slowly they made it work.

Dean noticed that, although Sam asked about his life, he didn’t ask for details about where he lived or if he had a job. In fact, every time Sam asked anything, he made it painfully clear that he didn’t want to push and that Dean had no obligation to tell him anything. At first, it was endearing, but after the seventh time, it got annoying.

”For fuck’s sake Sammy!” Dean groaned. ”Just ask, okay? I’ll let you know if I don’t wanna answer.”

_”Are you sure?”_

”Yeah, I’m sure,” Dean huffed and rolled his eyes. ”How’s the bump?”

_”Showing a little. Ruby is still puking, though. We thought it would be over now, but apparently some women feel sick throughout the pregnancy. She threatened to geld me in my sleep, saying it’s my genes.”_

”I like her,” Dean grinned.

 _”Hah, fuck you,”_ Sam snorted. After a pause, he asked carefully, _”Do you have anyone?”_

Dean thought for a moment. ”I… there’s someone,” he finally said hesitantly. ”It’s nothing serious, just… having someone.”

 _”If you like it, having someone is good,”_ Sam said easily.

”Yeah,” Dean agreed.

Sam didn’t poke further, for what Dean was grateful.

It wasn’t like he didn’t like to talk about Lisa, it was just that he didn’t want to jinx it. He had learned a long time ago that he didn’t get to have nice things, and admitting he had something he liked was calling attention to it. Superstitious, perhaps, but one could never be too sure.

Their conversation turned to mundane things, to weird-ass baby appliances, the newest Starbucks concoctions (”A raspberry white chocolate macchiato, WTF?” — _”I know, Dean!”_ ), and to some batshit crazy pseudo-scientist who claimed he had found aliens buried in the ice somewhere in Alaska. A couple of times Dean found himself chuckling at Sam’s narrations. It felt nice.

At the end of their conversation, Sam turned hesitant again. _”I don’t have your number,”_ he started carefully.

”Pass,” Dean interrupted immediately, before he had even thought it through. Sam swallowed and Dean felt instantly guilty.

 _”Okay,”_ Sam said, but Dean could hear the strain in his voice.

He sighed. ”I’ll call you later, okay?”

 _”Sure. Take care, Dean,”_ Sam said, like he always said.

After the call, Dean felt uneasy. He puttered around the flat, making some coffee, having a light snack, and trying to read. It did nothing to ease his restlessness. Finally, he picked up his phone, muttered fuck it, and texted Sam his phone number.

A couple of minutes later, it beeped an answer.

_> Thanks. Ruby says hi._

And just like that, Dean felt a lot warmer.

 

* * *

 

Life slowly trudged on.

Dean kept on working to fix the building, feeling more and more sure and good about himself both at witnessing his progress and receiving the compliments from his tenants. Of course, Lisa was probably biased, Frank’s gratitude consisted mostly of Dean not letting the government spooks getting hold of the hidden _whatever_ in the building, and Mr. Malkovich… well, Mr. Malkovich mainly sung to his bees. But, anyway.

As the Holiday season approached, Dean started to feel nervous. He had never celebrated Thanksgiving, and, to him, Christmas had always been pretty much about the time when you got lots of free food from the shelters. Now, he had the feeling that, because he and Lisa were _something_ , things were expected from him. And Dean had no idea what to do.

Over the weeks, he had slowly opened up for Sam, had started telling him about his life as it now was, albeit in a slightly modified version. For example, Sam knew that Dean was taking care of the building he was living in, but he didn’t know it was the building dad had left for Dean (and, to be honest, Dean didn’t even know if Sam knew that dad had owned a building). He had mentioned Louisiana once and New Orleans a couple of times, but Sam had never asked anything. But then again, his brother was so careful not to scare Dean off that he was very hesitant in everything he said.

Sam also knew something about the people that lived in the building, but he had no idea Dean was their landlord. Dean had told him a little about ”The Paranoid Conspiracy Theorists,” ”The Ninja,” and ”The Pissy Princess,” but had barely mentioned Mr. Malkovich. It wasn’t a conscious decision, to shy away from talking about the man, but it was something Dean noticed himself doing. Something about him made Dean want to shield him from the outside world. It was odd. After all, they had met only a couple of times and barely knew each other.

Of course, Dean had told Sam about Lisa and Ben.

It was pretty obvious that Sam thought they were an item, but Dean wasn’t so sure. He liked Lisa a lot and he liked Ben even more, but shouldn’t there be a bit more in the relationship than just watching TV and having sex? Okay, the sex part was pretty awesome, but anyway.

Thing was, Dean had no experience about relationships. He knew how to have a good time in bed, how to please his partner, and how to be an attentive lover, but relationships? He was a completely at a loss.

”So, what am I supposed to do here?” He asked Sam, because he had no-one else to ask.

_”How long have you been together?”_

”Uh… I dunno… a couple of months?”

_”Is it serious?”_

”How should I know?” Dean asked, slightly bewildered. This was exactly why he sucked at this relationship thing.

Sam let out an exasperated sigh. _”Do you love her?”_

Dean blinked. ”I have no idea.”

 _”Dean…”_ Sam groaned.

”No, I mean it,” Dean insisted. ”I have no idea. How is it supposed to feel?”

 _”So, let me get this straight. You have no idea what love feels like?”_ Sam’s tone was incredulous.

Dean shrugged. ”How could I? I mean, I don’t think I’ve ever been in love, not really. And I’ve never been in a relationship before.”

Sam was quiet for a moment. _”I’m sorry,”_ he then said slowly. _”I don’t know how to help you here. They say that you’ll know when you’re in love, but I don’t know…”_

”Well, what about you? Do you love Ruby?”

_”Yeah. It’s… She’s my heart and my home. I can’t imagine my life without her. Or I can, but I don’t want to.”_

Dean made a non-committal sound. He honestly couldn’t think about Lisa like that. He liked spending time with her, but her being his heart and home? No way.

 _”But I guess you should just talk to her, right?”_ Sam suggested gently.

”Yeah. I probably should.”

A couple of days later, Dean tried to do exactly that. He tried to explain Lisa that he didn’t know what he’s doing, or what they are doing, and that he didn’t do Thanksgiving or Christmas.

He wasn’t sure what to think when Lisa gave him a long look, said, ”Okay then,” and didn’t bring it up anymore.

 

* * *

 

On Thanksgiving day, Dean woke up at the buzzing of his phone. There was a message from Sam.

_> I’m Thankful to have you back._

Dean blinked at the message for a long time, then turned the phone off. He got up, went through his morning routines, and while the coffee was brewing, went to get the paper.

When he opened the door, there was a small jar of honey in front of his door, decorated with a pink, glittering bow, and a drawn bee on the lid. There was no message, but Dean didn’t need one. He picked the jar into his hand, forgetting all about his paper, and went inside with a smile on his face.

Later that day, he sent a message to Sam.

> Me too.

 

* * *

 

”I don’t think this is working,” Lisa said one night. She was resting her head against Dean’s bare chest, drawing idle circles on his skin.

Dean sighed. It wasn’t like it was a surprise, really. He had been waiting for the other shoe to drop for a while now. It was early January, and things had been… well, not off, but significantly more toned down than earlier.

”I’m sorry, Lis,” he said quietly. ”I know this is cheesy, but it’s not you, it’s me.”

”Oh, I know,” Lisa huffed, but it was a gentle sound. She raised her head to look Dean in the eye. ”I’m mature enough to recognize my own worth. And I know I’m no saint, but you are right: it’s not me, it’s you.”

”Wow, tell me what you really think,” Dean said, but his words held no heat.

”Don’t be an idiot,” Lisa said, not unkindly. ”I like you, a lot. But that’s not nearly enough. You are a mess, Dean, and I’m too old and too wise to try and hold you up alone. I have a life of my own. I have Ben.”

She sat up on the bed and cocked her head a little. The nightstand lamp painted her skin golden, and her dark hair tumbled from her shoulder, framing her face. She was beautiful. And she was right.

”I’m sorry,” Dean said.

”For what? For us? Why? Do you regret this?”

”What? No! Of course not.”

”What then?” Lisa frowned, genuinely confused.

Dean shook his head and sat up, his shoulder brushing Lisa’s side as he drew his knees up and hugged his legs.

”I don’t know. For not being what you wanted?”

Lisa’s lips drew into a small smile. ”And what was it that I wanted?”

Dean shrugged. He had thought Lisa wanted a man in her life — a dad for Ben, and a partner for herself. But now, watching Lisa’s small smile, Dean realized he might have projected his own dreams of a traditional, happy family on her.

”Yeah,” Lisa said softly, obviously seeing the light of reason in his eyes. ”I might have entertained the thought for a moment, in the beginning, but it didn’t take me that long to realize this would never work long term.”

”Ouch.”

”Don’t get all butthurt on me now,” she said, nudging him on the shoulder. ”So what if I recognized you were a bit broken from the start? Does it change things? We never made any declarations, did we?” She gave him a crooked smile.

Dean rested his temple against his knee. ”You make it sound so… meaningless.”

”How so?”

”Like we were just… using each other or something.”

Lisa sighed, a soft sound in the dim light. ”So what if we used each other? Was it really that bad?”

Dean jerked his head up to retort, only to meet Lisa’s amusedly quirked brow. ”Oh, fuck you,” he grumbled with a sheepish grin.

Lisa snorted. ”As awesome lay you are, no thanks. Not anymore, I think.”

Dean sobered. ”Yeah, I think you’re right.”

They sat in comfortable silence for a while.

Dean thought about Lisa’s words. She was right, of course: he had used her to get some long-craved intimacy, a human connection, and care he hadn’t believed he would actually receive. And she had used him to scratch an itch. All in all, they were pretty much even.

After a moment, Dean cleared his throat hesitantly. ”What about Ben?”

Lisa blinked. ”What about Ben?”

”I’d like to… would it be okay if I — I mean —”

”Yes,” Lisa interrupted.

When Dean blinked, she shook her head and sighed.

”Dean, if you thought I would deny you spending time with Ben, you’re even a bigger idiot than I believed you’d be.”

”I wasn’t sure,” Dean muttered. ”I wouldn’t know.”

Lisa started to say something, but caught herself. Instead, she pressed her lips together in a thin line and just _looked_ at Dean for some time.

”Yeah,” she said slowly. ”I guess you wouldn’t.” There was a sad note in her voice.

Then she leaned forward a bit and kissed him on the forehead.

In a way, Dean didn't even have it in him to be sorry that it was over. He wasn’t sure what to think about that.


	4. The Return To Yourself

For some reason, Dean thought things would turn awkward between him and Lisa, but they didn’t. They still talked when they saw each other, she still invited him for dinner sometimes, and he still took Ben out to play every now and then. In a way, things actually got a bit better, as weird as it sounded: Dean hadn’t even realized he had been tense towards the end, but now that it was gone, he noticed it.

So did Lisa.

When Dean tried to apologize again, Lisa rolled her eyes and told him he was an idiot.

”It was nice as long as it lasted, right?” She asked pointedly. ”There really was no reason to draw it any further. It would’ve only turned sour anyway. This is better.”

Dean had to admit she was right. As odd as it was, by ending the relationship with Lisa, he had gained a friend. It made him humble.

”Me and Lisa broke up,” Dean said on the phone with Sam, a week after the break-up.

 _”I’m sorry?”_ It came out as tentative. No surprise, really: clearly Sam still wasn’t sure how to talk to Dean.

Dean shrugged. ”Yeah. I guess. I don’t think it’s that big a deal.”

_”Why?”_

”I dunno. Mostly because neither of us was what the other was looking for.”

A moment of silence. Then, _”Was it because you’re gay?”_

Dean snorted. ”I’m not gay, Sammy.”

There was an exasperated huff. _”Dean, honestly. Are you still in denial? There’s really no need. I don’t care and neither should you.”_

”I’m not gay,” Dean said with a bit more force. ”No, I mean it,” he continued, as Sam tried to interrupt, ”I’m not gay, I’m bi. And, either way, that’s got nothing to do with me and Lisa.”

_”Oh…”_

”Yeah.”

_”I didn’t know.”_

Dean sighed. ”Well, I guess there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

_”Yeah. I guess.”_

The silence stretched awkwardly, and, for a moment, Dean contemplated on ending the call. It would’ve been cowardly though, and Dean was tired of being a coward.

”So, how’s Ruby?” He asked instead.

Sam let out an odd, watery huff that made Dean frown.

_”She’s great. The morning sickness is finally over and it seems like she’s entering the mythical energy boost of the second trimester. And we had our second ultrasound a while ago. It was awesome! To see that —”_

Dean grinned at the open enthusiasm on Sam’s voice and leaned back on the couch, listening Sam babble on about his wife’s pregnancy. It was nice, happiness by proxy sort of thing. To feel like a part of something, even for a moment.

_”… And we have pictures of the baby. Would you want some?”_

Dean froze.

 _”Not that I’m expecting you to, but we thought that if you wanted, we’d like to send them to you,”_ Sam said hesitantly.

Dean knew what that meant. He would have to give Sam his address, and then Sam and Ruby would know where he lived. The thought had him panic slightly, even though he knew it was irrational. What if they decided they wanted to see him? What if they decided that the area Dean lived in was shitty and wanted nothing to do with him anymore? What if —

 _”Dean,”_ Sam said carefully. _”We only want to send you some pictures, and only if it’s okay with you. We’re not planning on popping on your doorstep unannounced.”_

Oh. ”Okay,” Dean managed, relieved and embarrassed at the same time.

What was wrong with him anyway? Normal people didn’t have a panic attack at the prospect of their brother stopping by. Normal people swapped Christmas cards and emails, not stilted text messages, or awkward phone calls.

But Dean wasn’t normal, was he?

He cleared his throat and recited his address, stammering only a little. Sam repeated it, wanting to make sure he got it right, and asked once more if sending the pictures was okay. Dean rolled his eyes and told him yes, but his hands still shook a little after they said goodbyes.

A week later, he got a letter with a Chicago postmark. He placed it carefully in the middle of his kitchen table and didn’t touch it afterwards. It took him three days to work up the courage to open it and look at the pictures.

There were several of them: a bunch of sonogram prints, a couple of clean ones and a couple with side notes pointing the baby’s head, toes, umbilical cord and so on and so forth. It was considerate, because to Dean, the baby looked like an alien.

There were also a couple of pictures of Sam and Ruby together. Dean sat for a good while at the table, staring at those, holding them carefully to avoid leaving fingerprints or wrinkling them. Ruby was a small, beautiful brunette with a wide smile and warm eyes, and Sam, geez, he had grown up to a hunk. They looked good together.

As Dean gathered the pictures back into the envelope, he noticed some text behind one of the sonogram prints. It was written on purple pen, and it wasn’t in Sam’s handwriting.

> _To Uncle Dean. :)_

Dean blinked and did a double-take at the words. Then he turned the picture around and looked at the black-and-white image of the unborn baby.

Some while later, after he had blinked the blur out of his eyes, his hands shook only a little, when he texted a ’Thanks’ to Sam.

Only a couple of seconds later, his phone beeped.

_> You’re welcome._

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks later, at the end of January, Dean received a package that had Happy Birthday!! written all around. He didn’t need to check the sender info to know it was from Sam, although it was slightly more difficult to decipher whose idea it had been to decorate the wrapping paper with pastel sharpies.

Inside, there were five Vonnegut books and a card.

> _I know this is obvious, but you once said you liked Vonnegut and that you didn’t have that many books of your own. Here’s the foundation of your own library._
> 
> _Happy birthday, jerk._
> 
> _XO Sam (and Ruby)_

Perhaps giving Sam his address hadn’t been that bad idea after all.

 

* * *

 

As much as Dean liked to be on his own, he sometimes craved for company. Sam said that it was normal human behavior, but, to Dean, it was a sort of a novelty. During his years drifting aimlessly around the country, company had usually meant competition, danger, or diversion, and he had had very little experience on spending time with other people just for fun.

Mostly, Dean managed to cover his need for human interaction by taking Ben to play baseball in the park. He liked to spend time with the kid, partially because he didn’t have to try too hard to be something he wasn’t, and partially because Ben didn’t buy any of his bullshit. He was a smart kid, and Dean was extremely proud of Lisa being such an awesome mom.

Right after their break-up, Ben had confronted Dean, asking him why he didn’t want to be with Lisa anymore. Dean had tried to be as honest as he could, explaining that sometimes caring meant letting go (which Ben had called bullshit right away), and that he was better as a friend than as a boyfriend. Ben had narrowed his eyes at him and thrown the ball with considerably more force than was probably necessary. Dean had nodded at himself and decided he deserved it.

It took Ben over a month to accept and realize that Dean had told him the truth. Dean was relieved. He knew Ben wasn’t his responsibility, but he still cared.

The other residents were a bit harder to befriend. Frank concentrated on interrogating Dean about his whereabouts, the state of the wires, or if he had seen any suspicious activity around the block lately. Krissy thought Dean was a lame grandpa, and Kevin was too busy with his studies and teaching to hang around. Not that Dean had that much to talk about with Kevin: the kid was smarter than three Sams combined, and a fucking ninja for that matter, effectively making Dean feel like a retarded amoeba.

Of course, as their landlord, Dean didn’t exactly need to be their friend, but he couldn’t see the problem with being at least friendly.

The only one Dean was not seeking out but noticed spending time with anyway, was Mr. Malkovich. It was odd, like a weak gravitational pull that made Dean aware of the fourth floor and its strange occupant. He realized he glanced upwards several times a day, and found himself thinking about the compelling intensity of the man’s eyes.

Every once in a while, there was a jar of honey, a pie, or a pot of some delicious food just outside Dean’s door. Dean didn’t know why the man felt the need to feed him, but he enjoyed every bite and made sure to scrub the containers spotless before returning them. And if he made sure he had his better shirt on when he went to return the containers, because he knew Mr. Malkovich would invite him in, no-one needed to know.

They hadn’t talked much, but Dean had seldom felt so much at ease as he did when he was in Mr. Malkovich’s presence. Usually, he handed Dean a glass of lemonade or a mug of tea, and continued with whatever he had been doing before Dean’s arrival. It was like he lived inside his own bubble, oblivious of the world around him, and interacting only on brief bursts before returning to his serene solitude.

Dean watched him and felt at peace.

Perhaps for that reason, he shouldn’t have been surprised to wake up on Mr. Malkovich couch one day. Well, to be honest, the thing that surprised him wasn’t that he had fell asleep on his tenant’s apartment, but the fact that when he opened his eyes, it was to have Mr. Malkovich bent over him, staring at him intently. That day, he was clad in white with sparkling blue wings. Dean was pretty sure he looked like the angel he claimed to be. If only angels used glittery orange nail polish.

”You have exceptionally beautiful eyes,” Mr. Malkovich said in his gravelly voice.

Dean blinked.

”And so many freckles…” the man’s voice trailed away as his eyes shifted to look at said spots on Dean’s skin.

Dean blushed. He had never exactly liked his freckles.

Mr. Malkovich’s lips twitched slightly as he noticed the red creeping over Dean’s skin, and Dean’s eyes dropped to them. He hadn’t even realized before how pretty lips Mr. Malkovich had, and, with that thought, he forced his gaze away from them. The burning blue eyes bore into his once more, and, even though their intensity should’ve made Dean uncomfortable, they made him feel oddly safe.

Just as Dean was about to think how _close_ Mr. Malkovich actually was, the man stood up abruptly, and made his way towards the kitchen. Slightly dazed, Dean sat up and followed him to take his cup back into the kitchen.

The bubble was back, and Mr. Malkovich didn’t seem to notice him.

”Well… thanks for the tea Mr. Malkovich,” Dean said, a bit awkward.

He was about to exit, when the man said, softly, ”I don’t think you need to be that formal, Dean.”

Dean stopped and turned around. ”What should I call you then?” He asked. ”Angel?”

He had meant it as a joke, but something alike pain flickered over the man’s face as he glanced at up. Dean decided he didn’t like how it made the blue eyes look.

”How about Cas? Would that be okay?” He ventured.

Mr. Malkovich cocked his head to the side. ”Yes. ’Cas’ is acceptable.”

Dean nodded. ”Okay then. See you later, Cas.”

A couple of weeks later Dean realized that, as much as he was calling the man ’Cas’ to his face, in every other aspect, to Dean, he was an angel.

 

* * *

 

When Sam called him the first time, it was the end of February. Dean stared at the phone for a while before answering. It had been Dean’s thing, the phone calls, and so far Sam had respected it. Sam had given Dean the space he needed, and only sent him an occasional text message every now and then, always keeping sure their tone was light, never actually expecting Dean’s reply. And he had never called Dean. Until now.

Glancing at the clock, Dean saw it was late. Chicago and New Orleans were in the same time zone, and if Sam was calling him at 2:45 am, something must be wrong.

”Sam? What’s wrong?”

There was a huff. _”Hi. I’m sorry, nothing’s wrong as such. I just… I wanted to hear your voice.”_

”Um, okay?”

 _”It’s this job…”_ Sam sighed. _”Sometimes it gets hard.”_

”Oh. Right. Hard case?”

Sam let out a long breath. _”You have no idea,”_ he said with a feeling. _”Let’s just say that I came home after being up for 37 hours straight and pretty much held on to Ruby until she kicked me out of the bed to take a shower.”_

”Sounds bad.” Dean didn’t know what Sam’s job description was in the FBI, but he had written his paper on serial killers. What little Dean had understood from the snippets Sam let out, he really was glad he had no idea.

 _”Yeah. It was. I’m just fucking glad it’s over.”_ He was silent for a moment. _”I’m sorry for waking you up. I just needed to hear your voice. I’ll let you get some sleep now.”_

Dean blinked. ”No, that’s… it’s okay Sammy. The building won’t care if I scrub the floors in the afternoon instead of morning. Besides, who's it gonna complain to, me?”

The second the words were out, Dean realized what he had said and froze.

Sam snorted. _”Well, that’s convenient.”_

”Yeah.”

_”Would you tell me about it?”_

”About what?”

 _”Scrubbing floors. Painting walls. Fuck, anything. Just… tell me about something normal. Please.”_ Sam’s voice was thick with unshed tears.

Dean cleared his throat. ”I… yeah, okay.”

Dean felt grossly out of his depth, but he started telling Sam about Marytower, about all the little things he had done; the walls he had painted; the plaster he had repaired; the windows and plumbing he had fixed. At some point he thought he heard Sam cry silently, and he pressed the phone closer to his ear, and started telling Sam about the clouds and bees painted on Cas’s floor. They probably didn’t fit in the category of normal, but he managed to wring out a couple of watery laughs from Sam, so who cared?

When Dean’s voice had gone hoarse and he was wondering whether to tell Sam about the raccoon that had started camping behind the dumpsters or Frank’s newest conspiracy theory, Sam stopped him. It was 6:15 am.

_”I think Ruby is awake. I… thanks, Dean. I don’t know how I would’ve made it through the night without you.”_

Dean shuffled on his feet, slightly uncomfortable. ”Hey, no problem.”

_”No, I mean it. It was… Jesus, Dean. They were just kids.”_

Dean swallowed. ”Fuck.”

_”Yeah. Anyway…”_

”Take care, Sammy,” Dean said. It felt odd, saying these words to Sam when it was usually the other way round.

_”I will. Thanks.”_

”Anytime.”

 

* * *

 

It was Krissy’s idea, actually, to start painting the murals on the walls on every floor. One Saturday in March, Dean answered his door to see the smart-ass kid with a raised brow and a brush in her hand.

What the hell, Dean thought, and went to buy some paint.

How it all turned into a bonding experience and a potluck, Dean didn’t know. At the end, there were teams in every floor decorating the walls, and the blankness soon gave way to pictograms, abstract shapes, ninjas and superheroes (as Kevin and Ben’s joined effort, Dean suspected), and obscure symbols.

Dean paused and, for a moment, he wondered how to ask Frank what the hell he was painting. He decided to go with the joking ”Are those supposed to protect us from alien mind probing?”

Frank snorted and shot him an exasperated look. ”How about no?”

Dean was about to apologize, when Frank continued, ”The copper in the plumbing and wiring does that already. These are just to confuse the spooks.”

Dean opened his mouth just to close it again. Right. Of course. He blinked and decided to go and see if Krissy still thought that My Little Ponies in warrior costumes were a good idea for a mural.

He was intent on examining the walls, when he heard a soft noise from the stairs behind him. Dean knew who it was, but he still went closer to greet the guy properly.

”Hi Cas,” he said with a smile.

Cas cocked his head and peered at the freshly painted walls. ”They are very beautiful,” he said, ignoring Dean’s greeting. He was clad in worn jeans and a faded, blue-striped button-down, and he had his silver wings on. Instead of a tiara, Cas was wearing a garland of white peonies and his toenails were a deep shade of plum.

Dean didn’t say anything, but nodded and sat down beside Cas. They shared an easy, comfortable silence, but after some time, Dean couldn’t help himself.

”You don’t come out often, do you?”

Glancing quickly from the murals into Dean, Cas frowned. ”I don’t like it. It’s too… open.”

Dean refrained pointing out that open spaces sort of came with the territory of being an Angel of the Lord. He hadn’t questioned his complete lack of smart-assing Cas for a long time now. Instead, he let out a non-committal sound, leaned his elbows on his knees, and narrowed his eyes at the murals.

Apparently, Rainbow Dash looked okay in Xena costume. So what?

A while later they heard someone coming up. Dean noticed Cas tensing beside him, and out of instinct, he stood up and moved to stand slightly in front of Cas, shielding him from sight.

”Dean?” Lisa poked her head from the stairs. ”Are you coming down to eat? There’s still some hot dogs left.”

”Yeah, sure. In a minute,” he called back.

When he turned to look at Cas, he was curled into himself, like he was trying to make himself smaller.

Dean frowned. Why the hell would Cas behave like that?

He ducked his head, trying to get Cas to look him in the eye. ”You want to come and grab something to eat?”

Cas shook his head, avoiding Dean’s gaze. ”I’m a vegetarian.”

Without further explanation, he got up and hurried the steps up. On top of the stairs, he hesitated and turned his head a little. ”Thank you, Dean,” he said, a little haltingly, then went inside his apartment.

Dean was left standing, wondering what had happened.

Later, when he had made his way downstairs to eat, Lisa nudged his side.

”Was that Caspar?”

With his mouth full of hot dog, Dean managed to avoid answering, going for nod instead.

”Interesting,” Lisa hummed. ”We’ve lived here for almost six years, and I’ve never seen him sitting in the stairs.” She quirked him a smile. ”Perhaps he likes you.”

To his utter mortification, Dean felt himself blush.

Lisa’s eyes widened. ”Okay then,” she said slowly.

Dean swallowed, unsure of what Lisa would think about him. 

Then Lisa grinned, and Dean sighed in relief, until… _oh fuck._

”You looked really cute together,” Lisa said teasingly.

”Thanks, Lis,” he croaked.

He decided he needed to check for beer, and he absolutely didn’t hide in his kitchen, waiting for Lisa to go away.

 

* * *

 

 _"So… Ruby and I, we were talking…”_ Sam’s voice trailed away, tinny through the phone.

Well, that didn’t sound ominous at all. ”Yeah?”

_”She’s getting pretty big already, but don’t tell her I said that, okay? Anyway, she said she’d like to see you before the baby is born.”_

”Why?” Dean asked, genuinely confused.

Sam sighed. _”Because you’re my brother,”_ he said gently. _”Look, Dean… I’d like to see you too. It’s been how long — thirteen years? Fourteen? Too fucking long, if you ask me. But I’m not going to push you, and we won’t come there if you don’t want us to. But it would mean a lot to me — to us.”_

Dean fiddled with the hem of his shirt. ”Can I think about it?”

 _”Yeah, sure.”_ Sam voice was heavy with relief.

They chit-chatted about mundane things for a while, Sam telling about some obnoxious coffee shop that had been opened near his office, Dean explaining about the wall murals they had painted, trying to convince Sam that he wasn’t lying about the My Little Ponies in warrior costumes (”I mean it, Sam. It’s a Furiosa-pony, I swear!”).

In the days after the call, Dean was deep in thought. Meeting Sam (and, consequently, Ruby) was the logical step in the slow rebuilding of their relationship, but, frankly, it scared the hell out of Dean. Two decades back, Dean had been the one to look after Sam while Sam had looked up to Dean, but now it felt like the tables had turned. There was nothing in Dean to look up to, and Sam definitely didn’t need looking after.

His years spent as a drifter had taught Dean little about normal familial relations, and his knowledge had been tenuous to start with. He barely managed the interaction with his tenants and, occasionally, Bobby Singer, but he couldn’t say he was exactly _fluent_ with people. He never knew what to say or how to act.

In fact, the only person he felt completely at ease nowadays was Cas, as crazy as it sounded. Perhaps it said something about Dean, being able to relax only around a mentally unstable man who believed himself to be an Angel of the Lord.

Sighing, Dean dropped to sit down onto the couch and rubbed his face. On the other hand, he was 37, and about to be an uncle. Sam was the only family he had left, so perhaps he should at least try?

Bracing himself, Dean picked up his phone and tapped a message.

> Okay. But I don’t have enough room.

He didn’t need to wait for long for the answer.

_> No problem. We’ll be staying in a hotel anyway — Ruby is addicted to jacuzzis, so I need to find a hotel with one…_

Despite himself, Dean snorted. Seemed like his brother was so whipped.

 

* * *

 

A couple of weeks later, Dean was standing in the airport, waiting for Sam and Ruby’s flight to arrive. He was a complete nervous wreck. He had barely slept the previous night, and had managed to chug down only a glass of orange juice before leaving to the airport.

He had spent the previous day cleaning his apartment, furiously scrubbing Marytower’s stairs, and checking everything was okay. He had met Lisa on the stairs and, when she had worried if he was alright, he had confessed that Sam was coming over. Lisa had hugged him tightly and told him she was happy for him. It had helped to settle his nerves, at least for a moment.

When passengers started filing out, Dean’s pulse skyrocketed. He had a sudden urge to duck behind a guy who looked like a sumo-wrestler, but he managed to push his panic aside, deciding to act like a grown-up for a change. His resolve did nothing for his clammy palms, though, and he soon realized he was unconsciously rubbing his palms against his jeans.

After a moment of waiting and nearly fleeing, he spotted someone a head taller than anyone else, supporting an obviously pregnant brunette. Dean swallowed. They both were looking around eagerly, matching expectant grins on their faces. With a pang, Dean realized it was possible that Sam didn’t actually recognize him. After all, Sam had sent Dean his picture, but his last memory of Dean was from over a decade ago.

In a sudden burst of bravery, Dean shouldered forward, calling out Sam’s name, waving his hand a little when they spotted him.

It was awkward, their first meeting after so long, little sly glances and shuffling feet.

Then Sam huffed and asked, ”Can I hug you? Please?”

Dean could only nod mutely, then he was swept in a bear hug. At first, he was slightly tense, but then he relaxed, wrapping his own arms tightly around Sam.

”Fuck, I’ve missed you,” Sam said thickly.

”Yeah,” Dean managed, his eyes prickling.

The hug seemed to last forever. When they parted, it was with slight coughs and manly slaps in the back. Neither mentioned the other’s wet eyes.

”Sorry. This is Ruby, my wife,” Sam hurried to say, as he spied his wife’s raised brow.

”Thanks for remembering me,” Ruby said dryly, but the softness in her eyes belied her feelings.

Dean was momentarily at a loss of how to greet her, but Ruby made the decision for him when she hugged him. It was a bit more awkward hug, her being a stranger, short, and pregnant, but it made Dean all warm anyway.

They decided to check-in to the hotel and drop the luggages into their room, before heading to Marytower. Dean had cooked earlier, and he had one of Cas’s apple pies in the freezer, so everything was pretty much ready for his guests.

When he opened the door into his apartment, Dean spotted a paper on the floor, obviously pushed under the door. He picked it up and frowned. It was from Frank, that was clear, but he couldn’t decipher anything about the scribble. He sighed. It would probably be better to go and ask the man.

Sam and Ruby had used the opportunity to check out the living room and kitchen, and Dean trailed after them with apologetic air.

”I’m sorry, but I need to check something with one of my tenants. He might get a little… peculiar if I ignore him.” He made a face. ”You wanna tag along? You’ll see the murals,” he asked Sam.

Sam smiled. ”Sure,” he said and glanced at Ruby. ”What about you, babe?”

Ruby pursed her lips and shook her head. ”I think I’ll pass and take advantage of Dean’s couch in the meantime instead.”

”Um. You can take a nap in my bed, if you want to,” Dean offered hesitantly. ”I mean, I changed the sheets this morning and the covers are clean. And it’s a lot more comfortable than the couch.”

”Well, I’m not saying no to that,” Ruby grinned. ”Thanks, Dean.”

He waited in the living room as Sam saw Ruby into bed, fussing around a little, making sure she was comfortable. Dean watched them from the corner of his eye, idly wondering _So that’s what love looks like._

”Lay on, McDuff,” Sam said, interrupting his thoughts.

Dean snorted. ”I don’t think there’s anything Shakespearean about this, even with the warrior ponies.”

They made their way slowly to the second floor. Dean told Sam about the repairs he had done in the building, and Sam listened to him raptly, occasionally interrupting him with questions. It soon became obvious that, to Sam, repairing the whole building alone was something close to heroic. Dean shrugged. He had just kept on working, and he hadn’t had anything better to do.

When they finally got to the second floor, knocked on Fran’s door, and met the man, he took one look at Sam and pitched a fit.

”You brought an undercover Suit to my door?!”

Dean looked back and forth between Sam and Frank. ”He’s not… This is Sam, my brother.”

Frank narrowed his eyes, whirled around, and slammed the door to their faces. Dean blinked at the closed door, and turned towards Sam, plastering on a pained smile.

Sam’s lips twitched. ”I reckon that was Frank?”

Dean winced. ”Yeah… sorry about that.” He had no idea how Frank had spotted Sam being FBI, what with his worn clothes, Converses and beanie-clad head. Chronic paranoia, he guessed.

Sam huffed a laugh. ”Don’t worry. That’s not even close to some of the weirdest encounters I’ve had in my line of work.”

”Do you mind if I talk to him alone?”

”No, go ahead,” Sam waved him along. ”I’ll go check the wall paintings.”

Dean waited until Sam had gotten to the third floor, and away from Frank’s line of sight, before he knocked on the door again. It took some time and pretty creative talking to coax the guy to open the door.

”So, was this note urgent?” Dean asked when he finally had managed to get Frank to actually talk to him.

Face scrunched up, Frank averted his eyes. ”It was nothing. Never mind.”

”Frank,” Dean sighed. ”If it’s important, I need to know. My brother’s not here, and I won’t tell him anything, okay?”

Frank opened his mouth to snap, when Dean heard Sam urgently shouting his name.

”I’ll get back to you,” Dean called Frank over his shoulder as he darted up the stairs.

Sam wasn’t in the third floor, and, glancing up, Dean had a cold feeling in his gut. He hurried up, only to practically bump into Cas.

”What the fuck…?”

Cas was huddled on step, backed against the wall, his hands covering his head. His purple wings trembled violently as he shook. Sam stood wide-eyed on the top of stairs, hands in the air.

”I have no idea what happened,” Sam rushed to say. ”I went up the stairs, looking at the paintings, and when I got here I heard a noise behind me, and he was there. I said ”Hi,” and he just… crumpled. I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

Dean blinked hard, trying to think. He sunk on his knees beside Cas and tugged him into a clumsy hug, and was a bit taken aback when Cas clung onto him with bruising force.

”Cas, it’s me. Dean. You’re okay. You’re safe.” He had no idea what he was doing, but he tried anyway. ”That’s my little brother Sam. He’s not gonna hurt you.”

Then an idea struck him.

”Sammy, back away to the corner.”

”What?”

”Back away. You’re blocking the door.”

Sam glanced to his side, mouthed a silent _’oh,’_ and slowly backed away to the corner.

”Cas? Wanna go home?” He asked, keeping his voice soft.

Cas nodded, and gently, carefully, Dean helped him up, supporting him all the way. The door to Cas’s apartment was slightly ajar, and they needed to stop to get it properly open. When Dean supported Cas under his arm to reach out for the door with his free hand, he heard Sam gasp in his corner, but he didn’t pay it any attention, being more worried about Cas.

When he had visited Cas’s place, Dean had been in the living room, in the kitchen, or on the roof. Now, he didn’t even hesitate, but practically carried Cas into his bedroom, helped him on the bed, and tucked him in.

Dean was about to get up and let Cas to rest, when a hand gripped his wrist.

”I heard your voice,” Cas said quietly. ”I heard you talking to someone, and I wanted to hear you better. I didn’t realize… I didn’t know it would be dangerous.”

Frowning, Dean sat on the edge of the mattress. ”It wasn’t dangerous. That was Sam, my brother. He’s okay.”

Cas didn’t answer, just squeezed his eyes shut and curled into his side under the blankets. Dean didn’t know what else he could do, but he stroked Cas’s hair a moment, said he would come check in on him later, and left.

A bewildered Sam was waiting for him outside Cas’s door.

”What?” Dean asked, slightly taken aback by Sam’s demeanor.

”Do you know who he is?” Sam hissed, pointing at Cas’s door.

Dean blinked. ”Uh. That’s Cas. He’s a bit weird, but he’s harmless.”

Sam’s eyes went even wider. ”What did you call him?”

Dean was now officially lost. ”He’s Cas. Caspar Malkovich. He might wear fairy wings and tiaras, but that’s all.”

Sam pinched his lips together in a tight line, grabbed Dean tightly by the arm and marched him back into his apartment.

”What the fuck, Sam!” Dean growled, when they were inside.

Sam let go of his arm and raised his hands up. ”Sorry. Sorry. I just… Fuck, Dean. You have no idea who he is, have you?”

Dean didn’t say anything, but raised his brows and crossed his arms on his chest in a _Well, go on then_ gesture.

”Fuck, Dean,” Sam said again, raking his hands through his hair. ”I don’t know what he’s said to you, but that’s not some Mr. Malkovich up there. That’s _Castiel Krushnic!”_

Dean scowled. ”And is that supposed to mean something to me?”

Sam paced around the living room, visibly agitated. ”I thought there was something oddly familiar about him, but the wings distracted me a bit. It wasn’t until you stopped to open the door that I recognized him. It was the angle. It was just like in the picture.”

”Okay, what?”

Sam stopped and rubbed his face. ”There is a minuscule chance that I’m wrong, but I’m _almost_ positive that guy is actually Castiel Krushnic. I stumbled into him while I was writing my paper.”

Dean stared. ”You wrote your paper about sadistic serial killers,” he said slowly.

”Yeah, I know. The entire Krushnic family was brutally murdered more than twenty years ago. All, except Castiel. Nobody knows how or why he survived, but he did. He was the reason they eventually caught and convicted the perpetrator. Castiel was placed in a witness protection program, but he vanished soon after. His body was found months later, but obviously the rumors of his death have been somewhat premature.”

Dean’s eyes were drawn up, towards Cas’s apartment.

”That’s… absurd,” he objected.

 _”I know,”_ Sam flailed. ”And I’d be the first to scoff myself off, but I was invited into this seminar in a couple of months, and, anyway. I went through my paper again and, well, his case is one of the main cases of my study. I stared at his picture just a couple of weeks ago.”

Dean’s mind was reeling. There was no way — how could he — what the fuck?

”The guy,” Dean had to clear his throat. ”The guy who did that. Is he still locked up?”

Sam nodded. ”Yeah. Locked in a mental institution. He’s not getting out.”

Dean nodded. ”That’s good…”

An uneasy silence fell, both men lost in their thoughts.

It was Ruby, who wrenched them out of their musings, slowly wandering from Dean’s bedroom. ”Okay, first? I’m hungry. Second, who died?”

Both Sam and Dean jerked their eyes at each other. Ruby watched them for a moment, then she groaned.

”Really, Sam? This was supposed to be a vacation!”

Sam winced. ”Sorry, babe. Something came up.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. ”Yeah, yeah. Something always comes up,” she grumbled.

Dean shook himself out of his shock. ”Yeah. Sorry. I’ll just reheat the stew and then we can eat.”

The dinner was delicious, but the conversation was stilted. Ruby didn’t have the patience to try keep things cheery all by herself, and both Dean and Sam were too shaken for small talk. Afterwards, they didn’t even try socializing, but agreed on going to bed early. Dean drove them back to their hotel and, after settling on time when he’d pick them up the next morning, he let them relax and took a scenic route back home.

As he drove, he thought about what Sam had told him. Could it really be true? That Caspar Malkovich the slightly unstable wannabe angel was, in fact, a survivor of a slaughter? If so, what the fuck was he doing in Marytower of all places?

 

* * *

 

Sam and Ruby stayed in New Orleans for an extended weekend, mainly because Sam didn’t get more time off from work. They went sightseeing (which was a novelty to Dean as well), visited Bobby Singer (because Sam insisted), and ate in Benny’s restaurant, because Lisa insisted. Dean had eaten Benny’s food several times at Lisa’s, but he had never visited the restaurant itself. Turned out, the place was awesome and Benny, the bear of an owner-slash-cook was pretty damn entertaining. In addition to that, Dean had the chance to spy some heart-eyes from Benny towards Lisa, and made a mental note to tease her later about it.

Before Sam and Ruby left, they made preliminary plans for Dean to fly to Chicago after the baby was born. It made Dean’s heart clench: is was the first time he had something to look forward to — to know someone was waiting for _him_ in the near future. He had to excuse himself for a moment there and to retreat into the kitchen to compose himself.

When he heard steps behind him, he was sure it was Sam. Instead, Ruby’s arms sneaked around him to an awkward hug.

”I’m so glad you invited us over, Dean. I’m so glad I got to meet you after everything Sam told me about you.” She gave him a watery smile. ”He’s right, you know. You’re going to be an awesome uncle.”

As hard as he tried, Dean couldn’t stop his eyes from watering, but it was okay. Ruby’s eyes were bright as well.

 

* * *

 

No matter how he tried to push his suspicions away, they nagged somewhere in the back of his mind. In a way, Dean resented Sam a little for telling about Castiel Krushnic, because it made Dean go through all his interaction with Cas, trying to remember anything specifically odd or out of place. Cas’s erratic behavior made it pretty hard, though, because there seemed to be no real pattern, just his odd quirks, like singing to the bees or wearing tiaras.

But it bugged Dean.

And that’s how he found himself in New Orleans Public Library, diving headlong into old newspapers.

Even with his primitive skills, it didn’t take him long to get results, using _Krushnic_ \+ _murder_ as keywords. What he found, was pure horror.

> _CARVER HITS AGAIN!_
> 
> _ANOTHER SADISTIC MURDER!_
> 
> _A FAMILY OF 12 BRUTALLY SLAUGHTERED!_
> 
> _’THE CARVER’: I KILLED THEM BECAUSE THEY WERE ANGELS_

Turned out, the man responsible for the murders, Alistair McLeod, was a clinically diagnosed psychopath with a rare form of schizophrenia. He had been convinced he was a henchman of Lucifer, his general on earth, and an important part of bringing forth the apocalypse. In his statement, he had declared he had to _”- - carve 40 Angels in honor of his master, to open the gates so that Lucifer could rise and rule the earth.”_

McLeod had targeted religious families that had named their children after angels. The Krushnics had been immigrants from Russia, a poor Russian Orthodox family with a flock of children bearing angel names. They had been doomed the moment McLeod had learned about them.

> _\- - The bodies of the parents Natalia and Sasha Krushnic, and their children Michael, Gabriel, Raphael, Uriel, Selaphiel, Jehudiel, Barachiel, Anael, Muriel, and Nathaniel, were found early this morning. The perpetrator was caught near the crime scene. - -_
> 
> _ONE SURVIVOR IN ANGEL MURDERS!_
> 
> _ALASTAIR MCLEOD FOUND NOT GUILTY BY REASON OF INSANITY!_
> 
> _\- - The last remaining member of ”The Angel Family,” as they have been called, Castiel Krushnic, testified against Alistair McLeod. Mr. Krushnic survived as by a miracle from the brutal slaughter that took his entire family, and has hence been declared as ”blessed by God” by many religious communities - -_

_What the fuck?_ Dean fumed. ”Blessed by God” because he had witnessed the murder of his own family? What damn twisted psychos those believers were anyway? 

> _THE LAST SURVIVING ANGEL MISSING_
> 
> _Mr. Castiel Krushnic, the sole survivor of the so-called Angel murders, went missing last Sunday. Mr. Krushnic testified against ”The Carver” McLeod, and was about to enter witness protection program. Speculations about his fate vary from death to divine intervention. Anonymous sources told us that Mr. Krushnic is under the protection of The Russian Orthodox Church - -_
> 
> _\- - Mr. Krushnic would have been ”The Carver’s” 40th victim - -_

There, attached to the article declaring Mr. Krushnic’s disappearance was a photograph. It was a bit faded and grainy, but Dean had no difficulties identifying the man being led into a courtroom.

It was Cas.


	5. Lost In The Middle

Dean had a problem. Well, to be honest, he had a metric fuckton of problems, but his current one was something he had never dealt with before. It’s not every day you find out one of your tenants is a survivor of a massacre.

How did you even deal with something like that? Cas must be going mad… oh. Right. That probably was the reason he was slightly off his hinges. Most likely he was on medication too. Not that Dean had ever seen anything even remotely resembling a drug bottle in his apartment, which, of course, didn’t mean anything. Cas might have his meds somewhere safe, out of the sight of prying eyes.

But what the hell was Dean even supposed to do now?

That’s exactly the question he asked Sam when he called him, some days after the visit to the library.

_”Why would you need to do something?”_

Dean huffed in frustration. ”Because I have to! It’s like… I wanna tell him he’s safe, that I…” His voice trailed away.

 _”Okay,”_ Sam said slowly. _”And that’s all?”_

”What do you mean?”

Sam didn’t say anything, but Dean could sense the raised eyebrow anyway.

”It’s not like that,” he sputtered.

_”Yeah, okay, whatever.”_

”It’s not. Stop trying to… to FBI me!”

 _”’FBI you?’ What does that even mean?”_ Sam echoed, amused.

”You know,” Dean grumbled, sitting heavily on the couch and rubbing his face.

Sam chuckled. Then, after a pause, he asked more seriously, _”I mean it, Dean. Why would you need to do something?”_

Dean squirmed. He hadn’t actually thought that closely the feelings he had developed for Cas. ”I dunno,” he said. ”It’s just…” He sighed. ”He’s living on a fake name here, and pretending to be an Angel of the Lord, for fuck’s sake. Why would he do that?”

_”You realize he’d be living under a fake identity even if he was in the witness protection?”_

”Yeah, but… wouldn’t he want to know someone has his back?” It came out as a little whiny. Dean winced.

 _”Dean, are you sure this is about Cas and not about you?”_ Sam sighed. _”I don’t know what you should do. You obviously know him better than me, so you should figure it out yourself.”_

”Yeah, I guess,” Dean muttered.

 _”Although I think you should tell him you’ve got a huge-ass crush on him,”_ Sam said wryly.

”I do not!” Dean said indignantly.

_”Do too.”_

”Do not!”

 _”Yeah, yeah, whatever,”_ Sam said airily and started humming ’Can You Feel The Love Tonight’ under his breath.

”Oh, fuck you,” Dean hissed, ending the call to Sam’s cackle.

 

* * *

 

Thing was, Dean couldn’t forget. The information about Cas’s past was like an obsession to him, keeping him awake at night and circling around his brain throughout the day. No matter how he scoffed at himself and told himself to get a grip, he couldn’t let go.

When Dean had seen Cas in a pitiful, trembling heap on the step and helped him into bed, something had fundamentally changed. The way Cas had clung onto him like his life depended on it, had made something hot and possessive flare in Dean. He had wanted to wrap his arms around the guy and keep him safe, to swear he would never leave his side. And after he had learned the truth about Cas’s past, he had wanted to set a camp outside Cas’s door, to guard him against the world.

He had done nothing of the sorts, of course. But he had returned to check that Cas was okay. Or, at least he had knocked on the door, and, when Cas hadn’t opened, Dean had left a bar of chocolate and a packet of tea he had had with him outside Cas’s door. In the evening, the treats had been gone, and Dean hadn’t even bothered to stifle his relieved sigh.

It became a thing, in the days after the freak-out, as Dean had started calling the incident in the stairs. Dean would stop by in the morning, knock on the door and leave a small treat outside, when Cas didn’t answer. The treats weren’t anything special: chocolate, a card with kittens on it, a small pouch of Peruvian lily seeds, a glitter pen — pretty much anything that reminded Dean of Cas. In the evenings, they were gone.

Dean told himself it was enough.

 

* * *

 

Slowly but surely, Dean had managed to get Marytower into a reasonably good shape. To be honest, he was actually pretty proud of it. The building had been in a shitty condition when he had gotten the keys last fall, but now it looked good. The windows were fixed, the plasterwork was okay, the walls painted (even though Dean still cringed at Krissy’s warrior ponies), the plumbing worked, and Dean had ordered an electrician to check through the wires. The garbage disposal was set on a more frequent schedule, and Dean had even started thinking about putting up a laundry room in the basement for communal use.

Yeah. Marytower was okay.

Problem was, Dean was growing bored. Of course, there were always something to fix and clean, but the sheer urgency of the building near collapse had dissipated, leaving Dean a lot more time in his hands. He enjoyed reading, and had actually started expanding his small library, but he was a slow reader, and he wanted something to do, before he started climbing the walls.

Over the months, Dean had kept contact with Bobby, partially because he felt he needed someone to report to (silly, but true), and partially because there was something… calming about the gruff old bear. Whenever Baby was in need of small tinkering, Dean headed to Singer Auto, and only half of his reason was that he didn’t want oil on his own porch.

One of those times, after finishing with Baby, Dean lowered her hood and took a speculative look around Bobby’s yard. There were heaps of rusting shells of cars, but there were several that could be worked on, in spite of their condition.

”You have any plans for those?” Dean asked Bobby, nodding his head toward the piles of rusty cars.

”Not really,” Bobby shrugged. ”Why?”

”Do you mind if I start working on some of them?”

Bobby turned to look at him with narrowed eyes. ”Why?” He asked again.

”Honestly? I need something to do before I’ll go stir crazy,” Dean said bluntly.

”Don’t you want a real job?”

It was Dean’s turn to shrug. ”I only got a GED and no resume. I’m not exactly hot on job market, you know. But I don’t need the money anyway, what with the rent money I collect.”

Bobby harrumphed. ”Fine. But you’ll pay for the parts.”

Dean nodded. That was only fair.

After a week, Bobby informed him that he better bring some coffee grounds, if he was going to use the coffee maker anyway. The next morning, Dean brought five packets of coffee and two dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Bobby didn’t even raise his brow at the heaps of doughnuts on the counter, but Dean made a mental note of the flavors the old man grabbed first.

It never hurt to be prepared.

 

* * *

 

Several weeks went by before Cas invited Dean in again, and, when it finally happened, Dean didn’t even bother denying he felt like his world was once more back on track.

Things were different, though. Cas was somehow subdued and fragile, and Dean was hyperaware of his movements in the apartment. He didn’t know if it was because he was slowly coming to terms with his feelings toward Cas, or his newly gained knowledge of the man’s past. Be as it may, Dean couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.

If Cas was aware that Dean kept an eye on him, he didn’t show it. He went on with his business as usual, wandering about in his wings and headpieces, and humming to his plants. To a casual observer, Cas would’ve probably seemed exactly the same, but to Dean, it looked like Cas was hunched, curled in a shell inside that weird bubble of his.

Dean wanted it gone.

It took him some courage and a bit more observing to actually act on his feelings, but one Saturday in late April Dean decided he had had enough. They were in Cas’s living room, Dean plastered on the couch and Cas on his knees in front of the small table, potting plants. Cas was wearing his glittery silver wings, and Dean was pretty sure that if angels really existed, Cas was a perfect picture of one.

It’s now or never, Dean thought, sat up properly, and cleared his throat.

”You know, Cas… I like you,” he said.

Cas glanced up at him and gave him a serene smile. ”I like you too, Dean.”

”Yeah. Okay. That’s nice to know,” Dean said, a bit flustered. ”I mean that I care about you. A lot.”

Cas set the plant on the table, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned to look at Dean, cocking his head a little. Dean thought he looked adorable.

”You are important to me. I want to see you smile.” He dropped his eyes on his hands and chewed his lip. ”I want to see you safe.” He lifted his gaze to look at Cas, who was frowning.

”I want to keep you safe. I’m not letting anything happen to you.” Dean paused to swallow, his hands suddenly clammy. ”Castiel.”

All color drained from Cas’s face. His eyes widened impossibly huge and his mouth dropped slightly open, but no sound came out. He scrambled backwards, stared at Dean in what looked like pure terror, and started to shake.

Dean’s heart dropped. Fuck, this wasn’t how he had pictured this to go!

”Cas, I’m sor—” he said, intending to get up.

”No!” Cas said in a broken whisper. Dean barely heard it, but it stopped him on his tracks like a blow.

”No no no no no…”

Dean stared in horror, as Cas crumpled in a pitiful heap, letting out a quiet, heartbreaking noise. Dean dropped in a crouch and tried to make his way closer. He only managed a couple of steps, when Cas lurched backwards, flailing his hands, hitting them on the furniture beside him.

”Don’t!” Cas cried. ”Don’t touch me! Get away from me! Please, don’t!”

Dean sat back on his haunches and raised his hands a little in a placating gesture. ”Yeah. Okay.”

What the fuck was he supposed to do now?

Then he noticed the blood dripping from Cas’s fingers. Quickly glancing around, he realized Cas must’ve hit his hand hard on a pair of scissors he had left on the table after opening the fertilizer package. Cas obviously hadn’t noticed it yet, being too intent on staring at Dean.

”Cas? Baby?” Dean didn’t stop wondering where the endearment came from. ”You’re hurt. I’ll get a towel or something, okay?”

He moved slowly sideways towards the kitchen, keeping up the soft commentary. Cas’s wide, panicked eyes followed his every move, and he jerked violently when Dean stood up.

”I’m just getting a towel,” Dean said.

He turned to get a clean towel from the cupboard he knew Cas stored them, and the second he did, Cas bolted. Dean whirled around, only to see the bedroom door slam shut. Then he heard something heavy being dragged in front of the door.

”Cas?” Dean called, although he knew it was futile. ”Cas, I’m sorry. I fucked up. I didn’t mean to upset you.” He walked slowly towards the closed door, hearing some shuffling from the room.

”Look…” he tried. ”Your hand’s hurt. I’ll leave some wet towels behind the door and leave, okay?”

There was no sound from the other side, and Dean sighed, mentally swearing at his own stupidity. He wetted a couple of towels, left them on a chair beside the bedroom door and backed away.

”Okay, I’m leaving. I’m really sorry, Cas,” he called from the door, before stepping out and closing the door behind him.

With a heavy heart, Dean made his way down the stairs and into his own apartment. He went through the motions of making coffee in autopilot, going through what had happened over and over again. He couldn’t understand what he had done wrong, but it was painfully obvious he had fucked up bad. Cas had looked at him like he was sure Dean was there to kill him.

Why the fuck hadn’t he kept his mouth shut?

Dean closed his eyes as he remembered Cas’s smile when he had said he liked Dean back. It hurt like hell, realizing how he had wiped that smile from Cas’s face, replacing it with that awful mask of dread.

There and then, Dean swore he would do whatever it took to get that smile back on Cas’s face. He shook himself out of his self-deprecating thoughts, deciding to concentrate on Cas instead.

He rummaged his cupboards for the first aid kit and one of the cute kitty cards and wrote a short note to Cas: _I’m sorry. I fucked up. I never meant any of that to happen._ Then he made his way to the fourth floor, put the kit and the card beside on the floor and knocked on the door. He didn’t expect an answer, not after what he had done, and after pressing the flat of his palm on the door for a moment, he left.

The following morning, Dean wrote his note on another kitty card and went upstairs. When he saw the first aid kit and the card from previous night still on the floor, exactly as he had left them, he stopped on his tracks. Earlier, Cas had never left any of his treats outside. Suddenly worried, Dean hurried to the door and knocked.

There was no answer.

What if something had happened? What if Cas had actually hurt his hand badly and was in need of proper medical attention? What if—

Dean didn’t dwell on the thought any further, just turned to hurry downstairs. He had never before even considered using the master key, but now he rummaged for it as soon as he got in his flat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew he could be in serious shit no matter how this turned out, but his worry over Cas drowned every other thought in his mind.

After finding the key, he took the stairs two at a time, panting as he got to Cas’s door. Just to make sure, he knocked again before inserting the key.

The apartment was silent.

With one look, Dean took in the mess in the living room, everything still the way they had been when he had left the previous night, plants, soil, dripped blood, and all. He swallowed, his concern skyrocketing.

”Cas?” He called out. ”It’s me. I used the master key to get in. Are you okay?”

He heard nothing.

Fear pooling in his gut, Dean closed the door behind him and strode to the bedroom door. He got no answer to his knocking this time either, and, after warning Cas that he was coming in, he started to push the door open. It took time and effort, what with whatever Cas had pushed in front of it, but after some serious work and swearing, Dean finally managed to open it enough to get a grip of the drawer blocking the way, push it aside, and take a look at the room.

It was empty.

Dean blinked in confusion. He pushed the drawer back to its proper place against the wall, knelt down to look under the bed, and even took a peek in the wardrobe. It was only then when he realized the bedroom window was slightly ajar.

”Oh please, no…”

He hurried to the window and fought back a wave of nausea as he noticed the blood on the windowsill. Pushing the window fully up, he glanced down. The ground was awfully far, and there was no fucking way Cas could’ve jumped down and survived. And, if he had jumped, there would’ve been something left. Right?

Dean swallowed. What the fuck had happened to Cas?

As he pulled his head back in, he glanced to his side and froze as he saw the fire escape. He leaned further, assessing the distance. He was ready to dismiss the fire escape being way too far, when his eyes caught on something glittery.

It was a tear of Cas’s silver wing.

 

* * *

 

Dean forced himself being reasonable. Marytower was Cas’s home, and even though he had panicked, he would return. He must. So, Dean forced himself to relax and go to Singer Auto as usual.

His resolve lasted a whole of six hours, before Bobby rolled his eyes, and bodily steered him to sit on the couch in his office.

”Would you mind telling me what’s up, boy?”

Dean almost brushed it off, but glancing at Bobby’s narrowed eyes, he thought better of it. ”It’s… there’s this guy…” His voice trailed off, unsure of how to breach the subject.

Bobby raised a brow. ”Troubles in paradise?”

Dean shook his head. ”No. He lives in my building. He…” Dean let out a breath, deciding just to go with it. ”I said something stupid and scared him. I fucked up and now Cas is gone.”

Bobby’s head jerked up. ”Cas?” He asked sharply.

Dean nodded, slightly confused. ”Yeah. Mr. Malkovich from the fourth floor.”

”Balls!” Bobby spat out.

He leaned against his desk with his arms crossed on his chest, staring at Dean with narrowed eyes. Suddenly Dean realized that the old man didn’t look like an old man anymore, but something dangerous. He forced himself to stay still and resisted the urge to fidget under the intense stare.

”Do you know who he really is?” Bobby finally asked quietly.

Dean’s eyes widened.

Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head for a moment. ”And I guess your ’fucking up’ has something to do with that?”

Dean swallowed and nodded.

”Balls!” Bobby spat again, now softly under his breath. Then he rubbed his face under his cap. Shaking his head, he said, ”I need a drink,” dug a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and poured himself a drink. Glancing at Dean, he dug another glass from the drawer and poured one for Dean as well.

They drank in silence, lost in their thoughts.

”You need to find him, Dean,” Bobby said after a while.

Leaning forward on the couch, Dean set his glass on the floor, and buried his head in his hands. ”And how am I supposed to do that?”

”Don’t you have a paranoid tin hat tenant able to tap into surveillance systems?”

Dean looked up, ready to snap at Bobby. But the old man was completely serious.

”If Cas is anywhere near cameras, Frank can find him,” Bobby said bluntly.

”Bobby… what the hell?”

Bobby sighed and gave him a long look. ”How much do you remember of your life when you were a kid?”

The change of topic took Dean by surprise. ”What?”

Bobby raised a brow at him. Dean shook his head, trying to reorganize his thoughts.

”Mom died when Sam was just a baby. We travelled a lot, dad doing odd jobs here and there, but never being able to get a regular job.”

”Do you remember what jobs they were?”

Dean frowned. ”Um… no, not really. Security, transport, construction… that sort of things. Or at least that’s what dad said it was.”

For a moment, Bobby scrutinized his boots as if they were the most important thing in the world. When he finally raised his eyes to look at Dean, they were somehow more honest than before.

”Your old man was a bounty hunter, Dean. Dangerous work, especially with two kids in tow.”

Dean gaped. ”Dad was a what?”

”I managed to get him to let you stay with me for a couple of years, right after your momma had died. But we had some words about what was proper and good for kids. He didn’t agree with me, and eventually he took you with him.”

”What?”

”When he returned to my door ages later, telling me I’d been right…” Bobby shook his head, ignoring Dean’s shocked gaping. ”I wasn’t glad I’d been right,” Bobby muttered and fell silent.

Bewildered, Dean stared at the old man in front of him.

Dad had been a bounty hunter? What the fuck? And Dean and Sam had lived with Bobby? Was that why the old man in his plaid and baseball cap had felt so eerily familiar? And Bobby knew who Cas was? And Dean should go to Frank?

”Bobby, what the hell is going on?”

Bobby pressed his lips together on a thin line. ”That’s something you’ll have to talk with Castiel,” he said softly. ”But first you need to find him.”

”So… Frank,” Dean said.

Bobby nodded. ”Yeah.”

 

* * *

 

When Frank finally answered his door, he had his pissed Affenpinscher face on.

”What?” He hissed.

”I need your help,” Dean said as greeting. ”But I’m not telling you out here.”

Frank narrowed his eyes at Dean, but beckoned him inside after taking a quick peek around the floor.

”You’re inside,” he snapped after he closed the door behind Dean.

”I need your help finding Mr. Malkovich.”

Frank froze on his way to kitchen and turned slowly around.

Dean felt a strange kind of a déjà-vu about the way Frank’s expression had turned from the pissed-off Affenpinscher into something dark and dangerous.

”Do you now?” Frank asked slowly.

”Yeah. I fucked up. Bobby — Mr. Singer — told me to come to you.”

”Oh, I know who Bobby is,” Frank muttered darkly as he made his way towards his computer central. ”When did Castiel run?” He asked, already tapping away on his keyboard.

”Two days ago. Via the fire escape.”

For a second, Frank’s fingers paused to hover over the keyboard, before continuing his furious tapping. Dean watched him for a moment, until he realized something.

”Wait — so you knew who Cas was?”

This time Frank stopped to turn to face Dean. ”Did you fall on your head when you were a kid, or are you stupid on purpose? _Of course_ I knew. Did you really think your dad would’ve asked me to move in if I didn’t?”

Dean didn’t answer, because, what?

”Now would be a good time to contact your brother. We might need someone inside the FBI.”

Too stupefied to even ask, Dean went for his phone, but Frank interrupted him, throwing him a different phone. When Dean just stood there, staring at the weird phone in his hand, Frank rolled his eyes.

”That is a phone, Dean. Use it to call your brother. Today, please.”

”Yeah, okay,” Dean said and tapped the number from memory.

_”Hello?”_

”Um, hi Sam.”

_”Dean? Why aren’t you calling from your own phone?”_

”A long story, I’ll tell you some other time,” Dean answered, turning away from Frank who hissed ”Don’t tell him my name, you idiot!” from behind him.

_”Is everything okay?”_

”No,” Dean sighed. ”I went to talk Cas a couple of days ago, and… well, it didn’t go as planned.”

There was a moment of silence. _”Okay,”_ Sam said slowly.

”Thing is, he’s gone. Frank’s helping me to find him, but he said it would be a good idea to tell you,” Dean said, ignoring Franks furious ’abort, abort!’ gestures.

_”Are you calling from Frank’s phone? The conspiracy theorist guy who thinks Matrix is for wussies?”_

Dean stopped to stare blankly at the wall for a moment. He didn’t know how to answer.

On the other end of the line, Sam sighed. _”Well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll tell you if I find out something. Keep me posted.”_

”Yeah, okay,” Dean said, and, after some lame reassuring words, he ended the call. He turned to look at Frank, who seemed to be completely absorbed in his computer. For a moment, there was no other sound than the tapping of the keyboard.

Finally, Frank sighed and turned his head a little. ”This might take a bit of time. Go look for him or something. I tell you the moment there’s something to tell.”

When Dean didn’t immediately react, Frank turned around.

”Shoo,” he growled.

 

* * *

 

Prior to his moving to New Orleans, Dean would’ve never guessed the city had so fucking many small roads, back alleys, and dingy parking lots. After weeks of searching, scouting around with Baby and on foot, looking for a familiar shape of dark, mussed hair and piercing blue eyes, he really learned his way around the city.

He didn’t dare asking too many questions, but he roamed the streets daily, leaving behind little tokens he knew Cas would recognize: kitty cards, glitter pens, and such.

Dean kept on, because he refused to think what it would mean if he stopped. He wasn’t ready to give up.

He was pretty sure the whole building knew. Frank knew, of course, but something about Kevin, Krissy, and Lisa revealed they were at least aware that something had happened, what with Dean being constantly jittery and on the move. They didn’t ask, but they offered small, encouraging smiles whenever they saw him.

After having weeks to think about his actions, Dean blamed himself, of course. He had been so sure he was doing the right thing, telling Cas he knew, but he had been so wrong. Like Sam had said, it had been more about Dean than Cas: Dean’s deeply ingrained need to be needed and to prove he was useful had stomped over his common sense.

Sometimes Dean _really_ fucking hated how efficiently he had been conditioned to seek acceptance via usefulness instead of being just _him_.

He wondered, what would happen when he found Cas again. (He stubbornly thought _when_ , because there was no other option.) Would Cas look at him with terror in his eyes, curl into a small bundle, waiting for the end to come? Or would Cas hate Dean for what he had said?

Would Cas ever forgive him?

 

* * *

 

It was early June, when they finally got a lead.

Dean was at Bobby’s trying to drown his constant worry on some unfortunate piece of almost thoroughly rusted piece of vehicle, when his phone rang. He nearly hit his head as he rushed to answer.

 _”Get in the car,”_ Frank snapped without a greeting. _”The bomb shelter in West Boulevard of Lakeview, he was there half an hour ago.”_

Dean scrambled into Baby. ”Wait, how do I get there?”

_”I’m your navigator. Now shut up and drive. He didn’t look too good.”_

It was perhaps the most frightening car drive of Dean’s life so far. He drove as fast as he dared, Frank’s snappy voice directing him. Dean knew Frank well enough to know he wouldn’t have said Cas was sighted somewhere if he wasn’t absolutely sure. His heart hammered in his chest and he almost vomited out of pure lightheadedness of it all.

Finally, after all this time, they had proof that Cas was alive!

The sky was overcast and the air smelled of rain, and there had been warnings of an approaching storm. The hurricane season was around the corner, and Dean had been even more worried that Cas would be outside during storm. The man was probably more familiar with storms than Dean, having lived in the area for years, but it was different to live through the storm inside a building than under a bridge.

When Dean finally found the bomb shelter area, the wind had picked up and a couple of raindrops splattered on Baby’s windshield. He didn’t need Frank’s warning of the storm, seeing the storm clouds overhead.

”Where was he?”

 _”Go left, behind that block,”_ Frank prompted. _”Wave, you’re on candid camera, kiddo,”_ he said, and Dean flipped off at the camera to his right.

 _”Okay, you’re there. He has a one hour lead. Good luck.”_ Frank ended the call, but Dean didn’t worry. He knew Frank would call him back if he saw something.

The area was deserted, partially due to the late hour, partially because of the weather. Dean glanced at the sky as he got out of the car and lifted up the collar of his jacket. It looked like the storm was coming in hard. He needed to move.

Dean started to methodically sweep the area, as he had taken habit of doing over the weeks, calling softly Cas every now and then, just enough to hear over the wind. He didn’t see anything and no-one answered his call. But Dean was stubborn — he simply refused to give up and leave, this place being the last Cas had been seen. He kept on going, kept on searching and calling Cas’s name.

After three hours, he was beat. The wind had picked up more, and the rain had started falling, hard. There had been no sign of Cas, no call from Frank, and Dean had serious trouble battling his bitter disappointment.

”Cas, where are you?” He asked aloud, looking around.

Over the hours, Dean had gone through and around the buildings several times, going as far as ask around. No-one had seen a dark-haired, blue-eyed man in his forties, and more than once, Dean was encouraged to go home or at least find a shelter from the storm.

Dejected, he finally made his way to Baby. He had failed again.

As he put the car on gear and glanced on his rearview mirror, a lightning flashed and he saw something in the shadows. Dean frowned and turned around to look properly. He had walked past that recess several times, and all he had seen was a pile of cardboard. But now…

Dean shook his head, turned the engine down and got out of the car. Even though it turned out to be just a pile of rubbish, he needed to check it out. He jogged towards it, taking in the slightly bulged form of a human under the pile of rubbish… Despite himself, his breath hitched.

It might be nothing. It might not be Cas. It could be just some homeless person.

Slowly, carefully, Dean walked to the cardboard pile.

”Excuse me?” He said tentatively.

The pile twitched.

”Are you alright there?”

He reached out a hesitant hand to move the cardboard aside, just a little, to see who was underneath. The person smelled like a corpse and almost looked like one, but when he opened his eyes, Dean couldn’t stifle a sob at the sight of the familiar blue. He didn’t give a fuck that hauling Cas into a hug was the equivalent of dragging a dumpster on his lap. He squeezed his arms around the other man tightly, ignoring the water pouring down on them, and the mud seeping into his clothes.

”Dean?” Cas’s voice was confused. When Dean raised his head a little, he was wearing a puzzled frown.

”Yeah, Cas. It’s me,” Dean said hoarsely, and before he knew it, he was kissing Cas.

Cas let out a startled noise against his lips, but he didn’t try to pull away. Instead, his hands came up to grip Dean’s arms tightly, and when the kiss ended, Cas rested his head on the crook of Dean’s neck.

”Come on, let’s go home,” Dean said gruffly. ”Can you walk?”

He helped Cas up, blinking at the thin form of the previously built man. To his defense, Cas tried to walk, but after a couple of steps, his legs gave out, and he would’ve tumbled on the ground if Dean hadn’t caught him.

”Okay,” Dean said, mostly to himself, grabbed Cas into his arms, and carried him to Baby bridal style.

When they reached the car, they were both soaked through, and Cas was trembling. Dean lowered Cas to lean to the side of the car for a moment, while he snatched a blanket from the back seat to line the front seat with it. Not to shield the seat — Dean didn’t give a fuck about the upholstery at the moment — but to wrap it around Cas after helping him in.

Before he started the car again, Dean called Frank to let him know they were coming home. Cas didn’t say anything — in fact, it seemed as if Cas dropped out as soon as the car started. Dean couldn’t help but glance to his right every now and then. He couldn’t believe he had found Cas, that Cas was safe and alive. Blinking at the relieved sting in his eyes, he gritted his teeth and concentrated on getting home.

As he drove, he thought about what to do. He didn’t want to leave Cas alone, but he honestly didn’t want to use Cas’s apartment. He wasn’t sure he was welcomed there. At the end, there really were no other options but his own apartment. It was small, safe, and on the first floor, which was nice, because, as much as Dean liked to hold Cas, he wasn’t sure he could manage to carry the guy up to the fourth floor.

Once home, he parked Baby and carried Cas inside. Thankfully, the building was quiet. Dean really had no wish to explain Cas’s appearance to anyone.

”Cas, baby?” He said, once they were in his apartment. ”I need to get you clean, okay? I’ll draw you a bath and wash you, okay?”

Cas didn’t answer. He swayed on his feet, eyes closed.

Dean wasn’t sure if he was awake or sleeping, but it didn’t really matter. He knew that it might be huge-ass improper what he was about to do, but he really didn’t have a choice. No fucking way was he going to let Cas sleep as filthy as he was, and the guy was in no shape to wash himself. Besides, Dean reassured himself, Cas hadn’t protested the kiss.

With gentle hands and explaining everything he did, Dean undressed Cas, politely averting his eyes when removing the ragged underwear. He piled all the clothes in a heap by the wall to throw away later, and guided Cas to sit in the bathtub. Wincing at the obvious signs of hunger written all over his body, he wondered how long Cas had gone without eating. The guilt of being the reason for Cas’s condition nearly forced him on his knees, but he gritted his teeth and shouldered on.

To redirect his thoughts, Dean concentrated on setting the water temperature, reached out for a sponge, and started washing Cas, making sure to be on the line of his sight, even though Cas had his eyes closed.

The water turned ugly brownish gray with the soot, and Dean had to wash Cas’s hair three times to get it clean. He washed Cas’s beard too, but left shaving for later when Cas would be in the shape of deciding himself whether he wanted it gone or not.

With Cas’s front washed, Dean gently guided Cas to lean forward to wash his back. That was when he saw the scars and gasped.

Cas’s whole back was carved with symbols, from the nape of his neck to the small of his back. They followed the curve of his spine and shoulder blades, partially interlacing and overlapping. Dean thought he recognized the pentagram, but otherwise the symbols were unknown to him.

Dean was barely able to hold back his hand, to keep from touching. This was what that psycho had done to Cas?

This was where ’The Carver’ had gotten his name from?

Dean wanted to be sick.

Instead, he gritted his teeth, washed Cas’s back, and rinsed him thoroughly before wrapping him in towels and supporting him to the bedroom. He picked his softest, most worn out pajamas, dressed Cas in them, and tucked him in.

He left the bedroom door ajar to let light and sound in, and went to clean up the bathroom and take a quick shower himself. After he was done, when there was nothing else to occupy his mind with, Dean sat heavily on the couch and let himself cry.

 

* * *

 

The next morning might have been awkward, but surprisingly enough, it wasn’t.

Dean woke up curled on his side, facing Cas. They weren’t touching, but their hands rested very near each other, fingers nearly brushing each other. Cas’s eyes were clear and serious, and his cheeks had a faint blush. Dean hoped it was because of the situation, not fever.

”Why am I in bed with you?”

”Because I found you yesterday and brought you home,” Dean answered.

”Oh,” Cas said, falling silent for a moment. Then he frowned. ”Did you bathe me?”

Dean swallowed. ”Yes.”

”Did you kiss me?”

”Yes,” Dean said, feeling blush creeping up his neck.

Cas blinked several times, before he nodded. ”Good,” he said and crawled into Dean’s arms, pressed his nose against the hollow of Dean’s throat, sighed, and went to sleep.

 

* * *

 

Dean didn’t know what actually happened, but suddenly he was sharing his daily life with Cas. Cas didn’t talk much or even move much, being still weak. Dean concentrated on making Cas feel better, feeding him and being near him. He never asked about what had happened or why Cas had run. He figured Cas would tell him, if he wanted to.

The… thing between them was fragile and precious, and Dean wanted to protect it at all costs. He made sure that, after the first kiss, he didn’t push or presume, but let Cas initiate all contact. So far, Cas had settled to occasional kiss and cuddling as close to Dean as possible. To his surprise, Dean felt content and didn’t actually crave for sex.

The day after he had found Cas, Dean had called Bobby and Sam to tell Cas was home. After a moment of consideration, he had also told Sam about Bobby, and about dad’s history. Turned out Sam didn’t remember the time at Bobby’s at all (no wonder, really), and he had been as oblivious about dad’s real occupation as Dean. In a way, it made Dean feel better, to know he hadn’t been the only one kept in the dark.

A couple of weeks later, Cas had regained enough of his strength to climb the the stairs to his apartment and, consequently, take the ladder to the roof to take care of his garden. Dean had shyly confessed that he had been watering the plants to keep them alive, but he hadn’t had a clue what to do with the bees. Cas’s bright smile had been enough of a thank you, and Dean had realized how worth his while it had been.

It was one of those bright, sunny June days, when there was a knock on Dean’s door. Cas was on the roof again, so Dean figured it was one of the other residents of the building.

Except it wasn’t.

There was an older black man standing outside his door.

”I’m looking for Jimmy Colt,” he said.

Dean shook his head. ”Sorry, you’ve got the wrong flat.”

The man narrowed his eyes, and the sudden glint in them reminded Dean of Bobby and Frank the time Cas had disappeared.

”He used to live here.”

”Well, there’s no Colt in here…” Dean started, and then realization hit. ”But there’s a Winchester, if you will.” He sighed and beckoned the man inside.

The man walked inside and took in the appearance of the room. ”You must be Dean,” he said.

Dean sighed. ”Yeah, I’m Dean. Dad died several years ago.”

The man frowned. ”Well, that’s unfortunate. I had a message for him.”

”What kind of a message?”

The man shot him a sideways glance, assessing him. He was silent for a good while, before he said, ”There’s a word on the streets that the blue-eyed angel is flying again.”

Dean stared at the man, unable to answer.

”You might better call Bobby and Frank in.”

Dean blinked hard, trying to wrap his mind around the situation. Why would he need to take action? That message meant nothing — the Carver was locked in, right?

His frantic thoughts were cut short as his phone rang. It was Sam.

_”Dean, I just found out: Alistair McLeod has escaped.”_


	6. Beyond Reality

Dean was still trying to cope with the knowledge of Cas’s true identity, and everything that had come afterwards, but the news sent his mind reeling. Knowing that someone was looking for Cas _and_ that the sick serial killer had escaped, Dean was having a hard time functioning properly.

When he looked back at his life, he sort of should have realized his dad’s job wasn’t a conventional one. However, watching the newcomer, Rufus, bring Bobby and Frank up to date, he was forced to give up the pretense that his dad had been even remotely ’normal.’

”Snap out of it, boy,” Rufus barked, not unkindly.

Dean blinked and realized Bobby and Frank were gone. ”What?”

”We need to move,” Rufus snapped.

Dean frowned. ”What? Why?”

Rufus cocked his head and his brows climbed up. ”Well, perhaps because the Carver is coming? We need to transfer Castiel to safety.”

”No,” Cas said quietly from the door.

Dean hadn’t heard him opening the door, and his head snapped up as Rufus whirled around to scowl at Cas. His costume of the day consisted of Dean’s tattered jeans, a white t-shirt, fluffy wings (with actual fucking feathers!) and a green garland he had woven from the flowers on the roof. He looked beautiful, tired, and resigned.

”Look,” Rufus started, but Cas stopped him with a small smile and a raised hand.

”No. It would only postpone the inevitable. I’m not leaving.” Cas dropped his eyes at the floor for a brief moment, then looked straight at Dean. ”But you should.”

Dean frowned. ”Wait a moment… No! I’m not leaving you after I just got you back,” he retorted.

Cas didn’t say anything, but kept staring at Dean with an intense look in his eyes.

Rufus let out a long-suffering sigh. ”He’s not leaving and you’re not leaving him. Ain’t that just the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. I need some healthy paranoia to even this fluff out. When you’re done gazing soulfully in each other’s eyes, I’ll be at Frank’s.”

Dean didn’t pay much attention to Rufus’s muttering as he stomped out of the apartment, but kept his eyes on Cas. He opened his mouth, but the other man just closed his eyes and shook his head.

”I’m tired of running.”

”I’m not going anywhere,” Dean said stubbornly.

”Dean…” Cas sighed tiredly. ”I don’t want you to get hurt. He’s after me. It’s always been me.”

”I’m. Not. Leaving. You,” Dean gritted through his teeth. ”I might not be the sharpest tool in the box, but I know how I feel about you. I — This feels _right.”_

Cas stepped closer and lifted a hand to cup Dean’s face gently. Dean closed his eyes and leaned on the touch, enjoying the warmth that seemed to radiate from Cas’s palm throughout Dean’s whole body.

Dean opened his eyes to meet Cas’s sad gaze, raised his own hand to press it carefully on top of Cas’s hand, turned his head, and kissed Cas’s palm softly. It felt more intimate than the kisses they had traded so far, and the emotion in Cas’s eyes told him everything he needed to know.

They were both in this, come hell or high water.

A moment later Dean gave Cas a small smile. ”I think we should go talk to Frank.”

Cas nodded. ”Yes. And then we need to get everyone out.”

 

* * *

 

After some deliberation, they decided to invite all tenants to Dean’s apartment. It was more than a little awkward, what with Rufus leaning on the wall, Frank scowling at everyone, Krissy and Kevin watching everyone with open curiosity while Lisa turned his narrowed stare at Dean.

”What’s going on?” She asked.

”I… um. You need to leave the building,” Dean said, instantly wincing how it came out.

”What?” Kevin and Krissy exclaimed.

”Are you kicking us out?” Lisa asked slowly. ”Are you in trouble?” Her eyes flickered to Rufus.

”It’s not like that—” Dean started.

”You need to leave because of me,” Cas interrupted and raised a hand to fend off protests. ”My real name is not Caspar Malkovich,” he said quietly. ”Twenty years ago…” He paused and Dean reached out to grip his hand. ”My whole family was murdered in front of my eyes. I was supposed to die that day, but I didn’t. I’ve been on the run ever since.”

”Holy fuck,” Krissy breathed, eyes wide. ”You’re Castiel Krushnic!”

Cas inclined his head.

Krissy huffed an unbelieving half-laugh and flopped back on the couch. ”My dad used to tell stories about the Carver. I never realized…” She shook her head again.

Rufus narrowed his eyes. ”Young lady, you’ve had some disturbing bedtime stories.”

Krissy shrugged. ”I guess that’s what you get when your dad’s a hunter.”

”Wait — your dad’s a bounty hunter too?” Dean asked, incredulous.

Krissy shrugged again. ”Yeah. He’s been on a hunting trip for a while now, but he’s alive. Got a postcard a week back.”

”I still don’t understand why we need to leave,” Lisa said.

The room fell silent. Somehow Dean found that all eyes were on him. He glanced at Cas, who looked at him with calm acceptance, and drew a breath.

”Because the Carver has escaped and he’s coming for Cas,” Dean said, keeping his eyes on Cas’s.

Cas closed his eyes with the air of resigned dejection and Dean didn’t even bother to think twice before tugging Cas close and letting him hide his face on Dean’s neck. Dean ducked his head and behind the cover of Cas’s wings, whispered in Cas’s ear, ”I’m not leaving you.”

When Dean raised his head, he saw Lisa look at him with a small smile and understanding in her eyes.

”The sooner we get you out, the better,” Rufus said gruffly, distracting everyone from the PDA.

”Oh, no, I’m not going anywhere,” Krissy huffed.

”You listen to me, young lady,” Rufus started, but was cut off short by a loud _’thwack’_. He blinked at the throwing knife buried on the doorframe an inch from his neck.

”No, _you_ listen to me, grandpa,” Krissy shot back. ”I was trained by my dad. I’m not running from a battle.”

”Well then,” Rufus said.

”I’m not leaving either,” Kevin said calmly from beside Krissy.

”What’s wrong with you kids?” Rufus groaned. ”Don’t you have any self-preservation instincts?”

”Oh, I have those,” Kevin smiled. ”I also teach Krav Maga, so…”

”He’s a ninja!” Frank stage-whispered.

Dean was afraid Rufus’s eyes would drop out by the force of his eye-roll.

”What about you, ma’am? Are you secretly Wonder Woman?” Rufus asked Lisa.

Lisa’s lips twitched. ”I’m sure my son would be thrilled if that was the case, but sadly, no. I’m just a mother, and I’m definitely getting out of here.”

”Do you have anywhere safe to go?” Dean asked worriedly.

”I think so, yes,” Lisa answered and bit her lip. ”Remember my boss, Benny? We’ve been on a couple of dates —”

”— And Benny’s got a military background. Yeah, you told me.” Dean nodded. ”You should call him.”

It was a flurry of phone calls and intense discussions from there on and, somehow, Dean’s home got turned into an operative base without him realizing. Frank and Rufus had an animated, quiet conversation before Frank hurried off, unwilling to leave his surveillance system unattended for long. Rufus stayed behind, obviously briefing Kevin and Krissy, and Dean guessed Lisa was on the phone with Benny.

All the while, Cas stayed tucked under Dean’s arm, face buried on his neck. Dean felt him trembling, and kept on a steady rubbing on his lower back, trying to remind Cas that he was there.

After Rufus was done with Kevin and Krissy, he made his way to Dean and Cas.

”You have some dedicated friends here,” he said with obvious admiration, glancing at Kevin and Krissy leaving the apartment.

”Yeah,” Dean said. ”I don’t know why they decided to stay.”

”They wanted to do the right thing,” Rufus said. ”It’s pretty rare these days,” he added, before turning towards Lisa.

”I checked in with Benny. We’re moving tonight,” she said and paused. ”I’m sorry I’m can’t help you,” she continued, offering Dean an apologetic smile.

”Hell no!” Dean exclaimed. ”You have Ben. I want you as far as possible, as fast as possible.”

Lisa nodded, then her eyes shifted momentarily to Cas. ”I’m happy for you, even though the timing sucks,” she said softly.

”Thanks,” Dean smiled.

Lisa nodded. Then she turned to face Rufus, all business. ”My apartment’s going to be empty. Do you need to… I don’t know, rig it?”

Rufus drew back a little and gave Lisa an appreciative once-over. ”You are a lady after my mind. Lead the way.”

After Rufus and Lisa had left, Dean and Cas were left standing in the middle of the living room of the empty apartment. Suddenly exhausted, Dean closed his eyes and rested his temple against Cas’s forehead and exhaled.

”Are they gone?” Cas asked, his voice muffled against Dean’s skin.

”Yeah.”

”I want to go home.”

Dean lifted his head to look at Cas, what little he could. ”Are you sure?”

Cas nodded.

”Okay,” Dean said. ”Let me grab my stuff.”

Cas raised his head to frown at Dean.

”Did you really think I’d let you stay there alone?” Dean asked. ”For better or for worse, we’re in this together.”

 

* * *

 

When Rufus learned that Dean and Cas were about to move into the fourth floor, he nodded with a grim smile.

”Good. I’ll be here in your apartment then, if it’s alright with you?”

Dean shrugged. ”Yeah, sure. That’s only reasonable, right?”

”Yes. Oh, I contacted Bobby and informed him what’s going on. And Frank said you should call that FBI brother of yours.”

Dean didn’t even bother being surprised that Rufus knew Bobby, let alone that Frank had informed him about Sam. So he just nodded and picked up his phone.

Sam was, understandably, less thrilled about the turn of events.

_”Are you out of your mind?!”_

Dean rubbed the base of his nose. ”No. And I’m not leaving.”

_”He’s a clinically diagnosed psychopath and a sadistic murderer. You’re insane to stay there.”_

”Cas refuses to move. I’m not leaving,” Dean repeated.

Sam sighed. _”You really care about him, don’t you?”_

”Yeah, I do,” Dean answered hoarsely.

Sam was silent for a moment, then he said, softly, _”Perhaps now you know what love feels like.”_

Dean swallowed, thinking back the conversation they had once had, about Lisa and feelings. And yeah, it seemed like, this time, he didn’t have to ask Sam how he knew he was in love.

”Yeah,” he answered hoarsely.

Sam sighed. _”I don’t like this, Dean. But I can’t really blame you. God knows what I would be ready to do if Ruby and the baby were in danger. Just… promise you’ll be careful, okay?”_

Dean promised. Neither of them said out loud that, with a sadistic serial killer on the loose, the promises might be empty words.

Later that night, when they were laying in Cas’s bed, Cas crawled into Dean’s arms and snuggled as close as he could get. Haltingly, he told Dean about the Carver, of the way he had talked to Cas’s mother, father, and siblings, of the way he had forced Cas to watch it all, saying he was special, meant to witness everything. With barely audible voice, he told Dean how gleefully Alastair McLeod had carved the symbols on the backs of his loved ones, and how it had felt to be the one being carved. He whispered how he had lost his mind in the haze of blood and pain, only to come back to in a field, some distance away from the house, with no memory how he had gotten there, but with the knowledge that his whole family was dead.

Dean listened to his narration with a heavy heart, holding him close. He didn’t tell Cas he was safe, that Dean wouldn’t let anyone hurt him, because they both knew better than make promises they weren’t sure they could keep. But Dean told Cas that he wouldn’t leave, that he would stay with Cas till the end.

At some point during the night, Cas fell asleep against Dean’s chest. Dean didn’t sleep, too worried and restless to relax.

Two days later, Sam texted to inform them that the Carver had been sighted in Baton Rouge.

 

* * *

 

They had been on the edge for over a week, ever since they got the warning from Sam. Dean and Cas hadn’t left the apartment, not that they even needed to, what with Cas’s extensive pantry and vegetable garden. Frank had constant surveillance running several blocks around Marytower and Rufus had reluctantly agreed on sharing patrol duty with Kevin.

The impending sense of doom hanging over their heads made them all jittery and snappy regardless of the very serious possibility of death. It a way, Dean hoped something would happen soon, or else they would start seriously freaking out and climb the walls.

If they hadn’t run out of clothes, Dean wouldn’t have left the apartment. However, they really needed clean clothes and washing jeans and shirts in the kitchen sink proved soon to be too complicated. As it was, after some serious consideration and discussing with Cas, Dean decided to make a short trip to the basement do do some laundry.

He had no intention to stay, but he wasn’t stupid either: he called Kevin before he left to inform he would be in the basement and Cas would be on his own for about ten minutes. The program would take about three hours, and then Dean would have to make another trip to use the dryer.

Before he left, he instructed Cas to lock and bolt the door after him, told him the maximum time he would be away, and reminded him not to open the door to anyone else but him. On his way down the stairs, Dean frowned when he didn’t see Kevin anywhere, but he shrugged and glanced at the nearly imperceptible surveillance camera on the corner. Frank would keep on eye on things anyway.

Despite the graphic circumstances, Dean was happy he had remade the basement to hold a laundry room. He had invested on top quality washer and dryer purely because he could. Sam had laughed his ass off when Dean had told him about it, but Dean knew Sam understood the real reason behind the flimsy words. Truth was, Dean loved doing laundry, because it meant home.

Thinking about Sam, home, and family, he didn’t pay attention to the shadows in the basement, and the hit on the back of his head took him completely by surprise. He had only time for a panicked thought about Cas, and then he fell into darkness.

He woke up stripped naked and tied to the pipes in a Vitruvian Man style in some abandoned warehouse. When he raised his head, a black-clad man standing in front of him raised a brow and cocked his head.

”Hello, Dean,” the man said in a soft, oily voice. ”Nice to finally meet you. I’m so glad you’ve been taking care of my lost angel during my absence.”

”Fuck you,” Dean spat.

”Oh my,” the man, Alistair, said with a slight frown and clucked his tongue. ”What manners. But what more can one expect from a Winchester, hm?”

Dean gritted his jaw, but kept silent.

Alistair smiled thinly, and somehow, it reminded Dean of a serpent.

”You must excuse me, Dean. I’m a bit rusty,” Alistair purred. ”I’m grateful, however, that you decided to offer yourself as a practice piece. Even though the draft is safe, I’d prefer my lines to be steady as I carve out the door to my master to enter this world.”

”You’re insane,” Dean choked out.

Alistair shrugged and made a non-committal sound. ”Perhaps. Or perhaps the definition of sanity is more fluid than you think.”

He turned and made his way towards a small table by the wall. The light in the room was dim, but it was enough for Dean to see the set of steel instruments set on the table in precise lines. They looked like surgeon’s instruments.

Dean wanted to throw up.

Alistair hummed under his breath as his fingers danced over the instruments. He was biding his time, Dean realized. But for what?

He didn’t have time to think about that when the Carver returned with an instrument that looked like a small ice cream scoop with a long handle.

”Melon baller is such a handy thing,” Alistair mused stroking lightly the edge of the scoop. ”Traditionally, it’s used to carve small balls out of melons or to remove seeds from cherry tomatoes or cucumbers. But when sharpened, it becomes such a diverse tool.”

Almost absently, Alistair reached out his hand and pressed the instrument lightly against Dean’s chest. ”It makes meat balls too,” he said, and dragged the instrument along the skin.

In bewilderment, Dean watched as the instrument neatly peeled off his skin, like he was an apple. The pain hit him a split second later.

He barely had time to scream before the next draw.

Alistair worked diligently, meticulously, with precision that would’ve shamed many a surgeon, had they witnessed his working. It soon became clear that he wasn’t interested in information — he kept on polite conversation, but never asked Dean anything of importance. After some time, he retreated several steps and scrutinized Dean, like he was evaluating his process. Then he shrugged and went to retrieve the next instrument.

Dean was soon lost in a haze of pain. It wasn’t enough to pass out, but it was too much to kick the endorphins in to distract himself from it. He was acutely aware of every draw, every pull, every sting, and his whole body was soon a throbbing mess of agony. The only thing that kept him sane was the thought that if Alistair was torturing him, Cas would be safe.

He should’ve known his luck just didn’t run that way.

At some point, Alistair stopped his ministrations, on Dean’s left side this time, and turned slowly around. Dean was too exhausted to prevent his eyes from closing. It wouldn’t matter, anyway.

”Welcome, Castiel. I’ve been waiting for you,” Alistair said, his voice dripping with glee.

Dean’s eyes flew open.

 _No! Cas, no!_ He tried to shout, to warn him away, but his voice was a hoarse whisper, spent in what seemed like hours of screaming.

Cas emerged from the shadows, his shoulders drooped and head bowed. His white wings were in disarray and dusty, and he had lost his garland at some point. He looked like a fallen angel, and he was the most beautiful thing Dean had ever seen.

It was like Alistair was a magnet, drawing Cas in with an unstoppable force. Dean could see how wide and dark Cas’s eyes were and how his wings trembled. Futilely, Dean yanked his ties, but it only earned him a reproachful head shake from Alistair.

”Shush now, Dean,” Alistair chided. ”Our guest of honor has arrived. It’s impolite to rave.”

At Alistair’s words, Cas turned his eyes at Dean, and Dean gasped at the black desperation in them.

”Why, Cas?” He begged. ”Why did you come? Why did you put yourself in danger?”

”Silence,” Alistair hissed with narrowed eyes.

Dean ignored him. ”You should’ve let me do this for you. You could’ve been safe —”

”SILENCE!” Alistair roared and hit him in the face with a force that snapped Dean’s head to the side and smacked it painfully on the wall behind him.

_”NO!”_

With the hit ringing in his head, Dean wasn’t sure what happened. He saw a blurred shape with white wings charge across the room, swinging, swirling, holding something. There was a wisp of maniacal laughter, then a loud thump, and a sickening crunch, followed by series of wet, squelching hits.

Then, silence.

”Dean?” Cas’s voice was scared.

He tried to open his eyes, but for some reason, they didn’t work.

Someone took a hold of him, cut his ties, and lowered him onto the ground, and then he was hauled on someone’s lap.

”Dean?” Cas again, but more urgent.

With great concentration, Dean managed to force his eyes open and focus on the shape above him. The blurred shape of Cas swam into his sight, his blue eyes wide with panic, and his white wings matted with blood.

”Hi angel,” Dean murmured.

Then everything went black.

 

* * *

 

When Dean slowly swam back to consciousness, it was to soft white light and the smell of disinfectant. He heard a low murmur of voices somewhere to his right. He tried to sit up, but the effort was cut short by a sharp flash of pain in his _everywhere_ , and he gasped.

”Dean?”

He forced his eyes open to meet the blurry, concerned face of Bobby.

”What —?” Dean managed, and his eyes widened at the raw sound of his voice.

”Easy now, boy,” Bobby said gruffly and offered him a sip of water. It felt heavenly on his sore throat.

”Before you ask, Castiel is okay,” Bobby said.

Dean didn’t even bother masking his relieved sigh as he slumped back against the mattress.

”He’s being interviewed at the moment. Don’t worry, Sam’s with him.”

”Okay,” Dean whispered and blinked slowly.

”You gave us all quite a scare,” Rufus said, walking to stand beside Dean’s bed. ”We don’t know how, but somehow Alistair’s minions were able to loop Frank’s surveillance and create a diversion to draw Kevin away. It was only for a couple of minutes, but it was enough for him to snatch you. We didn’t realize what had happened before Castiel came out looking for you.”

”I’m sorry, Dean,” Bobby said.

”It’s okay,” Dean whispered.

”No, it’s not!” Bobby snapped. ”The Carver wanted us busy elsewhere, we fell for it, and you paid the price.”

”No, it’s okay,” Dean repeated.

Bobby opened his mouth to argue, but Rufus interrupted him.

”That’s not what he means, right?” Something in the old hunter’s eyes told Dean that he knew very well how much one was willing to pay to protect their loved ones.

”We don’t know how, but Castiel guessed where the Carver took you,” Rufus continued. ”He almost managed to slip away from us, but fortunately Kevin made it back in time to see him leaving.”

”The boy refuses to tell what happened, but when we found you, he was cradling you in his arms and the Carver was a bloody mess in the corner,” Bobby added. ”Apparently Castiel had bludgeoned him to death.”

”Oh,” Dean breathed. _Well done, Cas._ He tried to keep his eyes open, but they slid closed.

”Get some rest,” he heard someone say before he drifted away. ”We’ll be here.”

The next time he came back to, the first thing he noticed was a warm pressure on his hand. When he finally pried his eyes open, he saw Cas on a chair beside his bed, slumped against the mattress, gripping Dean’s hand in almost painful hold. His hair was even more mussed than usual and his face was clean enough for Dean to see dark circles under his eyes.

In attempt to get into a slightly better position, Dean tried to move, but immediately decided against it. Oh hell, he hurt like a motherfucker!

As soon as Dean shifted, Cas’s head shot up, and he darted forward to hover over Dean. Eyes wide and intense, he stared at Dean, saying nothing.

It took Dean a moment to realize what made Cas seem… well, not wrong, but somehow diminished. Then it hit him: at some point, Cas had lost his wings (probably due to sanitary reasons), and he looked achingly human in his (Dean’s) blood-matted Henley.

”I’m okay,” Dean rasped, when the silence stretched.

Cas just shook his head and kept on gripping his hand.

”Cas,” Dean said again. ”I’m okay. _We’re_ okay.”

They looked at each other for a moment more. Then Dean squeezed Cas’s hand and tugged.

”Come’re.”

It shouldn’t have been possible, to fit two grown-ass 6 ft men in a narrow hospital bed, but, somehow, they managed. No matter how carefully Cas tried to tuck himself into Dean’s side, it still hurt like a sonovabitch, but Dean didn’t give a flying fuck. They were both alive, and the Carver was dead. That was all that mattered.

Later, when Sam entered the room, he just shook his head fondly and gently drew the sheet over the sleeping men.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Dean was released from the hospital. His whole body was one big, scabbing open wound, and despite the IV-antibiotics he had gotten, it still was in high risk of developing an infection. He was sent home with a bagful of creams, gauze, and written instructions how to take care of the healing skin. Cas listened the nurses and doctors with rapt attention, his head cocked to the side, asking a lot of questions in that serious voice of his.

Dean thought it was awfully cute.

’The Re-emergence of The Carver and The Last Angel’ (Honestly? The fuck was wrong with people?) was the giant hit of the month. There were interrogations, interviews, insane level of media attention, religious fanatics, concerned neighbors, well-meaning herbal healers, and even Dr. Phil. It was all overwhelming, but what surprised Dean the most was the way how the residents of Marytower closed ranks around him and Cas. They handled the curious, the nosey, and the horror-hunters, and let Dean rest and recuperate in peace with Cas.

The way Kevin’s mom handed one insistent attention seeker her ass was spectacular. Dean was awed and quite a bit smitten with her, but Frank’s gaping at the badass ninja-mom was priceless.

Having Sam on their side was a definitely good thing. Knowing exactly what ropes to pull, he coordinated everything, even though it most likely was somewhat out of his jurisdiction. Dean didn’t ask, and Sam didn’t tell. Dean had seen the look in Sam’s eyes when he accidentally walked in on Cas changing Dean’s bandages, and Dean knew that Sam _needed_ to do this. No matter how professional Sam was, no matter how much he had seen in his line of work, seeing his big brother hurt had shaken him to the core.

Doing anything strenuous was strictly forbidden, which meant Dean could forget the maintenance work and fixing cars for foreseeable future. When he told Bobby, the old man harrumphed and and rolled his eyes, grumbling something about "idjits" under his breath. Nevertheless, he made it clear to Dean that his unfinished Cadillac-project was waiting for him, so he better haul his ass back sooner or later. Pretending to ignore the redness in Bobby’s eyes, Dean flipped the old man off and snarked about Bobby getting all the good doughnuts in Dean’s absence.

The Marytower, on the other hand… Dean couldn’t help himself being worried. He knew the building would cope with some negligence (it had, after all, survived under the care of John), but he was reluctant to leave it unattended.

His worries were premature, though: one day, when he went to collect his mail, he saw Krissy sweeping the stairs.

”We’re taking turns,” she said, when Dean stopped on his tracks. Then she added, more gently, ”It’s our home too.”

Dean nodded mutely and went to pick up his mail.

”Did you know that the tenants are taking turns cleaning the building?” He asked Cas, after he had made the slow climb to the fourth floor. Dean practically lived there now, even though neither of them had said anything about it.

”The tenants?” Cas frowned. ”Oh, you mean your family.”

Dean opened his mouth to huff a retort, but an odd, warm feeling in his chest stopped him.

A family. Huh.

 

* * *

 

When Dean was cleared for light exercise, he took the habit of taking long walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes he listened to music and sometimes he wanted to be silent and think, but most often, he called Sam. During his stay, he and Dean had started talking a lot more, and the walks became a natural continuation to those discussions. They talked more openly, and Dean soon realized he wasn’t afraid anymore. Almost dying did things like that.

He started talking about himself, about his years as a drifter, about the big fight with dad, about his depression, about Cas. Sam mostly listened, offering an opinion every now and then. However, sometimes he talked about his life, and how lonely and alone he had felt, and how much he had missed Dean.

As it turned out, they weren’t that different after all.

Cas never accompanied Dean out and Dean never asked. Even though Alistair was dead and the whole psycho-cult had shrivelled down, the traumatic experience and over twenty years of living in fear had fundamentally changed Cas. Coming after Dean had taken a heavy toll on Cas, and he suffered from violent nightmares for a long time. As it was, Dean was awed and humbled that Cas had been able to confront Alistair in the first place.

Cas didn’t crave long walks. He had found his redemption on the roof garden, and its restricted and structured open space was enough for him. He poured his energy on tending the bees and taking care of the plants, and if he some nights stumbled to the roof to cry, Dean didn’t stop him. On the contrary, he grabbed a blanket and climbed after Cas, and they sat the night together, watching the sky and reveling in the fact that they were alive.

Yes, Cas still dressed in wings, halos, and glittery nail polish, and Dean wouldn’t change him for anything.

 

* * *

 

One day, when Dean came home from his walk, Cas was waiting for him by the apartment door.

”I have something for you,” he said, oddly hesitant. His eyes flashed brightly for a moment, before his gaze slid away.

”Okay,” Dean said softly.

Cas didn’t say anything more, but turned and headed into the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed. Dean followed him, curious. When he had sat beside Cas, he handed Dean an envelope. Dean took it and stared at his name on it.

”That’s my dad’s handwriting,” he said, baffled.

Cas didn’t say anything, just folded his hands on his lap and bowed his head, face in that serene mask Dean had learned to associate with nervousness. Frowning, Dean turned his attention back to the envelope and pried it carefully open. Inside, there were a couple of stained papers, filled with his dad’s shaky writing.

Dean drew a breath and started reading.

> _Dean,_
> 
> _If you’re reading this, you probably already know who Castiel is, either because he’s decided to trust you to read this or because he’s dead. I really hope it’s not the latter._
> 
> _Anyway._
> 
> _You’re probably wondering what the hell is going on, and, honestly, I can’t believe it myself. The thing is Marytower is actually Castiel’s property. Sort of. Not on paper, but the money was his, ~~no matter what I did to~~_
> 
> _Never mind. I’ll start from the beginning._
> 
> _If you’ve talked to Bobby, you know that I was a bounty hunter. That’s the reason we travelled across the country all the time, you know? I needed to follow the game and you had to follow me, because you didn’t have a choice. Or, well, perhaps you did, but I was too stubborn and proud to give you back to Bobby. You lived with him for a while. You should ask him about that._
> 
> _After you left I didn’t see any reason to turn back the harder gigs. I was alone. I guess I tried to kill my guilt with the job. Didn’t work that well._
> 
> _Anyway… That sort of hunting gets man a reputation. I don’t know how Castiel found out about me, but he did, and that’s how I found myself face to face with the survivor of the angel murders._
> 
> _I don’t know why, but something about him reminded me of you, and I just couldn’t turn my back again, like I had done with you._
> 
> _I’d want to tell you that I’d never took a life before, but that would be a lie. But this was the first time I did it for money. Not my brightest moment, but I still feel it was the right thing to do. I’m going to Hell anyway, so what’s one more life to that? I’m going to pay for - -_

There was a blotch of what Dean suspected was whiskey spread all over the paper, muddling and obscuring the shaky text into an unreadable mess.

Perhaps it was for the best.

> _\- - the money. Bobby and Frank know everything. Lee’s aware that something’s up, but he hasn’t asked and I’m not going to tell unless I have to. The others are normal people who are better off not knowing about these things anyway._
> 
> _I’m not going to lie, Dean. I know I’m dying. I know I was a shitty father, and no letters or buildings are going to make it any better. I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I was a jerk and I pushed you away. If there’s anything I’ve ever regretted in my life, that’s the thing._
> 
> _I hope you’ll contact Sam. Maybe together you can build the family I couldn’t give you._
> 
> _But no matter what you do, I hope you’ll understand this: I have always been and will always be proud of you._
> 
> _— Dad_

Dean blinked hard. His eyes were stinging, and when he looked up, he realized his vision was blurry.

”He gave me that a couple of weeks before he died,” Cas said quietly.

”Did you—”

”I don’t know what it says,” Cas interrupted softly. ”And I don’t need to know. It was appointed to you.”

”I have to burn it,” Dean said thickly, gripping the letter in his hands.

He glanced at Cas’s shocked eyes and shook his head.

”Not because it’s from him. It’s…” Dean sighed. ”Cas, he confesses a murder here. Something that can lead to you. I can’t let that happen.”

Cas let out a small sound of distress.

”If you think I’m going to let you go for something that happened twenty years ago, you’re wrong,” Dean said, surprised with the vehemence of his voice. ”I just got you back, Cas!”

Something painful rippled across Cas’s face and he ducked his head. Dean put the letter carefully on the side and reached out to cup Cas’s face, turning his reluctant eyes to meet his own.

”I mean it,” he said lowly. ”Yeah, my dad was a dick… the things he did — the thing he became. Fuck, the thing’s I’ve done…” His voice trailed away.

Cas cocked his head and frowned. ”But _why?”_

”Because,” Dean said.

”It’s not that simple.”

Dean gave him a small smile. ”Yes, it is,” he said, gently touching Cas’s cheek.

”I can’t be what you want.”

Dean resisted the urge to roll his eyes. ”Why don’t you let me decide what I want, okay?”

He turned a little to tuck the envelope under his pillow. Cas’s hand shot out, gripping his wrist almost painfully tight.

”No, Dean. I mean… I _can’t_. I’m just not wired that way.”

Dean turned fully towards him and scooted closer. Slowly, not wanting to spook Cas, he raised his hands to frame Cas’s face and leaned in to kiss him softly. First on his forehead, then the corners of his eyes, and, finally, on his mouth. He kept the kisses light and feathery, but full of love.

When he raised his head to look at Cas, he was met with eyes full of emotion.

”I sorta guessed it already,” Dean said and gave Cas another soft kiss. ”And I don’t care.”

”But what if —”

”Cas, honestly,” Dean said, a bit dryly. ”I still have two perfectly functional hands, you know?”

When Cas didn’t comment but kept on looking at him with sorrowful eyes, Dean sighed and tugged Cas to lie back with him.

”I’ve had sex with more people than I can count,” he said quietly. ”Don’t get me wrong, it’s pretty awesome, but what I have here, with you…”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head.

”I don’t remember being so at peace, before. Something about you calms me. Makes me feel at home. And to have this,” he gestured vaguely around them, ”to share my life with you, to have you in my arms, and to get to kiss you — that’s more than I ever dared to dream about.

”So don’t tell me you can’t be what I want, because I want you. I’d rather have you; bees, wings, tiaras, and all, than someone to have sex with. Okay?”

Cas didn’t say anything, but he snuggled closer, pressed his nose against Dean’s collarbone, and practically melted in his arms. Sighing contentedly, Dean reached out to snag the blanket over them.

He didn’t know what was going to happen later, how they would learn to manage Cas’s instability and Dean’s own issues while keeping the building standing. But he did know that they would do it together.

And that it was enough.


End file.
